Outfoxed
by Jaclyn840
Summary: A young red-haired girl gets chosen against the odds at the Reaping: Ruthlessly intelligent, breathtakingly agile; she knows she's going to lose the games for sure. But will she make it back home alive?
1. Blue Oceans of Hope

The harsh beeping of my transponder jolts me out of my sleep and into the realization that I'm still at work. I look down at the faint glowing screen strapped to my wrist in an attempt to make-out the latest electrical fault that I've been summoned to.

\SSB0001300-7C 04:58:30-R\

_90 seconds to the next hour, I can do this. _

I leap out from my napping position in the false ceiling of a pump room and land squarely into the familiar feeling of my worn out rubber boots. The Power Plant's Peacekeepers randomly patrol during night shifts in an attempt to fish out squatters and workers slacking off; but it's a tight squeeze for a girl of my stature to sneak into a space this confined, let alone a burly Peacekeeper with body armor and belt bristling with weapons. It's a maze of metal in here: catwalks and scaffolding, pipes and electrical cables. Everywhere – the touch of rust and smell of coal. One wrong step puts you into a burst of steam at best; a live, uninsulated electrical cable at worst.

_But oh, how I love this place. _

I make it out of the room in less than a second, and another one puts my arms and feet firmly wrapped around a long pipe that takes me 2 floors down to the basement where they keep transformers for transmitting power over long distances to the rest of Panem. My boots make a muffled clang as I vault over the railing onto an adjacent catwalk and after sliding down a short ladder I reach the room where my nap's interrupter awaits. I unhook a pair of patched-up safety gloves from my trousers and pull them on. None of the workers get safety equipment; and my mother had been so anxious about me working in here that she made me gloves from a pair of old, snipped-up oven mitts with torn up scraps of leather for insulation. The breaker panel has been all but corroded away from years of neglect and un-cleaned coal dust, but under the dim light I can make out a tripped switch. There is an ever-present buzz of electrical current behind every panel in this room, like a growling beast ready to kill at the slightest sign of irreverence. I wipe away the dust from the labels and compare it with the reading on my transponder just to make sure, and with a flick of my wrist, power gets restored to whatever house in District 7 unlucky enough to have a trip tonight. I loosen my gloves and look at my transponder again to confirm that the fault has been resolved.

\05:00:17-R\

"Damn it!" I curse under my breath. Just 17 seconds away from making the hour. Then I look at the time again and I am reminded why I probably shouldn't have rushed at all.

\05:00:25-R\

"R". Reaping day. It sticks out like a scab in my existence. That one day in everyone's life where you're utterly out of control of your fate. That disgusting, wretched and unfair day where some far off government decides that oppressing its citizens isn't enough and comes to take away two young souls to murder for their entertainment. The hope of youth lost to the spectacle of the masses. I calm myself down with thoughts of my odds today: no Tesserae, one name in hundreds. But what does it count? The entire procedure is completely random, made worse by our small numbers in District 5. The ever humming buzz of electricity and magnetism; together with the lingering effects of radioactivity beneath our feet has the unintended effect of keeping our fertility rates low. Together with the fact that infant mortality is an abysmal problem due to malnutrition, many children don't survive to see reaping day anyway. So there's no way to hide your name in the folds and comfort of the thousands of slips of paper being in a larger District like 11 would bring. The odds are never in our favor.

I have a friend named Gase, who's four years older than me. She has four siblings – anomalous in a District used to having one child per household or none – and she took out Tesserae for all of them. I remember my outrage at hearing her tell me that her name was going in forty times last year, and worked out with pen and paper her extremely unfair odds at the reaping day. She knew all this and still did it, confident that whatever magical reaping god that worked against us: that twelve year old who gets reaped and dies 4 seconds into a bloodbath, the crippled, blind tributes, would also work for us - rewarding those who genuinely wanted to help their families and warding off death for one more year. Needless to say, it worked, because she's 19 now and still very much alive. I decide to wander off to the surface since there's only about 2 hours left before my shift is over and neither the time nor mood for any more naps.

It's a long climb to the top from ten floors underground, but after much sneaking around on my way to the roof of the Solar Control Room, I'm rewarded with the sight of a beautiful dawn sky reflected on an endless sea of solar panels. There're only solar panels above the ground in District 5, everything else is confined underground, except the Justice building and the Control Room I'm sitting on. I slip my feet out of my boots and sit on the edge, allowing the morning breeze to kiss my toes awake. The relaxing atmosphere, together with the sudden onset of drowsiness caused by my earlier adrenaline surge at running through the Power plant, makes me very sleepy indeed. My eyes begin to shut and I slowly nod off, before a familiar sweet smell jolts me awake.

"Better stay awake, wouldn't want you falling off and missing your chance at the reaping today" says a voice behind me.

I turn around to see Gase standing by the ceiling access ladder with her messy brown hair and dirty work-trousers. She's almost an hour early for her day shift.

"I don't think they'd disqualify me for having a broken ankle, we're only two floors off the ground"

She smiles and removes her boots, sitting next to me as we take in the sight of an azure sky. It makes the field of Solar panels in front of us look like the sea. Although I've never seen the sea, the sight of the blue panels and the cooling breeze makes me wish that I was on a beach a million miles away from thoughts about being reaped.

"It really sucks being you today, three more years of this shit and no end in sight" She sneers

"Oh, rub it in will you?"

"Here, rub some of this good stuff in"

She hands over the flask of coffee that she has been drinking from and I tip the blissfully aromatic contents into my mouth. Coffee is the only commodity that's plentiful in District 5, as though the Capitol wants keep us awake longer so that they'd be able to oppress us into extended hours. Everyone likes to make their own brews to their tastes. Gase likes hers mild, with just a hint of sweetness from wild honey and mellowed out with soybean milk. Personally, I'd prefer a stronger brew, but with the prospect of being reaped approaching, I'd drink just about anything to take my mind off the situation.

"You're early today" I comment with a wry smile

"Thought I'd catch the sunrise with you"

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"The fault caught up on my transponder too" She says, holding up her wrist. "I knew you wouldn't want to go back to sleep seeing how it's reaping day, so I figured you'd be here"

"It's a little unnerving that you know me so well. You could probably kill me any time you wanted to and no one would know anything about it"

"Wow, getting your senses sharpened for the 74th Hunger Games already aren't we?"

I shouldn't be laughing, but I do. Like she always does, Gase makes me smile like no one else can. With my parents, I'd always have to go home to the looks of worry on their faces that there wasn't enough to eat. With my friends, the ever-present look of fear in their eyes that whoever you befriended would get slaughtered on live television the next year. Maybe that was why I got so outraged at Gase for taking Tesserae; I didn't want to lose someone I genuinely cared for so deeply.

Dawn breaks, and the field of glass in front of us glimmers with deep shade of rusty-red.

"Sunrises remind me of you" She whispers, combing my disheveled hair with her fingers.

I sigh deeply, resting my head on her chest and wishing I was someplace far away.


	2. Premonition

Our transponders chime in unison, ruining the moment that would've otherwise been perfect. It's still 20 minutes to the start of Gase's shift.

"It's alright, I got this one" She says, leaping to her feet.

My mouth opens to protest, but she's gone before I can turn around. If there's anyone faster and more agile than me, it's her. I put my boots back on and begin my slow journey home after clocking out and getting my pay. Through the cramped subterranean streets that criss-cross District 5, I pass the various slaves of the Capitol: Power plant technicians, Cable-layers and Scrap collectors; all on their way to work. There isn't a child in sight, none of us would bother doing anything since the Reaping isn't far off today. Before long I reach my home: a cramped unit in the middle of a sprawling underground apartment complex.

My house measures a very diminutive four paces from end to end. In it, my parents and I live; which is fortunate, since one more person here would put severe limitations on living space. We make do with whatever space we can; I get a lovely hammock to sleep in, strung up near the ceiling by the kitchen and my parents huddle up at night in a corner of the house on a single mattress. Someone's always at work, coupled with the fact that we don't own much, it makes the place seem bigger than it really is. My mother has figured out a way to grow vegetables and stack them vertically in hollow tubes with nothing more than spurts of water to keep them going, and these take up an entire wall. It's space-consuming, but I'd rather have more food than space.

My parents have left for work, but everything around the house reminds me of the reaping: the reporting instructions playing on TV, the emptiness of the room, the slightly luxurious breakfast prepared by my mother in front of me consisting of a cabbage and potato soup and a mug of coffee that smells of lavender. I slowly eat my hearty breakfast, savouring every bite as though I was trying to prolong the inevitable.

I instinctively pick up my homework as I always do after nightshifts; that's what the coffee is for anyway. But then again, there won't be anyone to mark it for if I'm gone by tomorrow. So I curl up in my little hammock and pretend to be interested in the Physics problems that stare back at me.

_I'm on a game show. Or some sort of silly interview because there's an audience in front of me and the clothes I'm wearing are definitely beyond what anyone from District 5 could afford. His name barely begins to register in my mind before Caesar Flickerman asks me the first question. _

_"AND NOW! The question for District 5!" He begins reading out the question from a large screen in front of the audience. _

_"In which direction does an Electrical current induce a Magnetic Flux?" _

_"That's easy" I reply into the microphone. "Perpendicular" _

_An angry-sounding buzzer sounds. _

_"I'm afraid that is wrong! The correct answer is PARALLEL" His booming voice echoes around the studio_

_"What!? That's ridiculous, why would they wind up wires in transformers th…" I protest angrily_

_My microphone is cut off and Peacekeepers appear on stage. I am yanked from the podium and the audience roars in delight. Right behind the stage is a pile of dead bodies. I can barely register my shock at the sight before a Peacekeeper pulls out a gun and puts a bullet through my head. _

I scream myself awake in a panicking, frightened mess, shaking from the vivid sensation of being killed. My father is standing across the room, home early to bring me to the Reaping, and smiling at me like it's some sort of joke.

"What're you laughing at?" I ask

In reply he holds up a page from the textbook on my lap containing formulae for magnetic induction.

"Oh my, I was talking in my sleep?" He nods in reply

"You always seem to get nightmares after drinking coffee" My mother says with a chuckle

"It's not funny. I dreamt I died"

She looks to my father, and the smile disappears from his face.

"You'd better get ready. It's almost time" She says in a hushed voice.

I untie my hair and sit on my father's lap for our usual pre-reaping tradition of having mom do my hair into a pair of fox ears. It isn't much, especially this year when I have opted to forgo my outgrown reaping dress. We giggle at one another when someone starts crying, just to break the tension from knowing that today could be the last time she gets to do my hair. Usually I'm the first one to cry, but this year – it doesn't take more than five minutes before I can feel the pitter-patter of her tear drops on my shoulders, which brings tears to my eyes as well.

My father never cries. He doesn't say anything either. Because he can't.

Three years ago, he was an engineer in the coal power plant that I now work at. It didn't pay much, but we had enough to eat, barely, even without me working. But then a fire broke out due to overloaded cables and he fought the fire bravely. My uncle says that it wasn't his fault, but someone had to take the blame for crashing the grid. So they had Peacekeepers publicly beat him to within an inch of his life as an example.

"To instil fear" I recall him saying to me, in a hushed whisper over my father's unconscious and battered body. It didn't instil any fear in me, seeing him like that. Rather it instilled in me a sense of rage at the gross injustice which remains to this day. The doctor that attended to my father in secret said that it was unlikely he would regain his voice, since the beating crushed his larynx; and he never did. I still remember his voice – deep and authoritative, while soothing at the same time.

Which explains why a girl of my age is working in a hazardous place such as the power plant. He could never work there again, for obvious reasons, having to take up a significantly lower paying position at a Solar Panel Factory and our household income situation became increasingly deplorable. The only other option was for me to take up Tesserae, which my mother was vehemently against. Instead she asked my uncle for help in getting me a job at the very same place which destroyed her husband. He agreed to help, but I had to pass the entrance test to prove that I was competent enough to work there. Normally the test was hard, and even adults who have finished school find it difficult to pass. But I had just lost a father's voice, and so for a month and a half I pored over manuals of high voltage transmission lines, power generation diagrams, circuit breaker systems, and passed the test with flying colours.

_In about half an hour; the time it takes to walk to the Justice building and the reaping to begin, we will find out if it was all even worth it. _

The Solar panels that line the square in front of the Justice building have been folded and wheeled away to form a cattle pen where all of us get to hear our fate. I get my blood taken and Peacekeepers corral me in with the other 15 year old girls from school. Most are classmates from my school, but it feels odd standing there in work clothes: cargo pants and a dusty shirt, while all the girls are in their reaping dresses.

"You aren't wearing a dress? It's reaping day" whispers a friend

"I sold it to my neighbour, can't fit in it anymore. Besides, if I'm going to die, I want to be comfortable" I reply

"You gave your dress away? That's bad luck!"

"I don't believe in luck" I comment plainly

The anthem drowns out the gossip that pervades my classmate's conversations. We all pretend to listen to the inane white-washed history about how much we deserve the fate that befalls us every year. Everyone just wants to hear a name that's not theirs and go back to their impoverished lives. Jupiter Bennings; the District 5 escort, appears on stage and begins the proceedings like he does every year. He's dressed more conservatively now; in a black suit and white pants.

"Happy Hunger Games and May the odds be ever in your favour. We will pick the girls first" He rattles off the words like a freight train, as if he is bored and hates being here.

His hand goes in the reaping ball and comes out in a flash. Everyone holds their breath in complete silence and vivid anticipation. Just as Jupiter begins unfolding the piece of paper, my transponder starts to chime loudly and it echoes through the air like a cannon going off.

"Damn it!" I curse under my breath, having forgotten to take it off after work.

Everyone's staring at me now. I silence my transponder and apologise profusely to the people around me, having noisily disrupted the most important proceeding of the year.

But no one looks away.


	3. Lasts and Firsts

My mind instinctively begins to search for places to hide; above a ripped-up ceiling board, behind an empty cabinet. But there isn't anywhere to hide now, and I can feel the world shrinking faster and faster around me as the cameras pan the crowds and people begin pointing in my direction. Eventually the Peacekeepers come and one of them shoves a scanner into my eye. A beep and a green flash confirms my fate.

"Right, that's her" she barks, before yanking me from the others and marching me off to the front.

"She should have worn her dress" are the last words I hear my friends whispering to one other.

As I stand on stage and face the crowd, two different sets of eyes look back at me: the look of relief and pity in the girls, and that of fear in the boys. Then the realization begins to hit me -

_I am going to die. _

The blood drains from my face and I begin to panic. It's the same feeling that hits me when I'm being chased by Peacekeepers: Tunnel vision, clammy fists, eyes that flit sporadically looking for a place to hide. I jam my hands in my pockets and clutch the fabric tightly to prevent myself from fainting and falling over. In my hazy panic-induced delirium, I don't even hear the name of the Boy Tribute being called out. But it only takes one look into the pair of rage-filled eyes marching toward me to recall it.

_Crys_

He fought everyone at school; taking on older students twice his size for lunch money. I've never known another person as explosive and violent-tempered as him; who could turn from a sullen, moody teenager in one second into a wild animal lashing out physically at everything around him. He stands beside me, hands balled up into fists and shaking – not from fear but from the sheer anger at being reaped. Jupiter asks us to shake hands, and he extends his toward me without looking in my direction. Not a hand, but a closed fist, and we touch knuckles in a usual schoolyard greeting that, in this moment, could only mean one thing.

_We're in this together, but I won't hesitate to destroy you if I need to_

He flashes me an angry look as they shove us into separate holding rooms. My panic begins to rise even further as the door slams shut. It's a huge room; and with only a solitary leather armchair for company it makes the space seem bigger than my home. The door's locked, so I begin pacing the windowless room rapping my knuckles against the wall looking for hollow spots in the wooden paneling to break out. There aren't any, so my attention turns to the floorboards. Just as I am on my hands and knees tapping the floor, the tears begin to form in my eyes.

_I'm trapped. There's no way out and I'm going to die. _

The sound of marching boots begins to erupt outside the door, and it sends me scurrying behind the only hiding place in the room. The door opens and I sigh in relief at the sight of my father. I run into his arms and begin bawling my eyes out but all he does is lift me into the armchair. He kneels before me and places a finger on my lips, silencing my cries for help; and begins tying back a shoelace which has unknotted itself in my scampering about on the floor. He unstraps the transponder that's still attached to my arm, and I can see his tears begin splashing on the floor.

My father's crying.

I press my face into his chest, breathing the last comforting scents of my father as he traces out words of love onto my cheek. He holds onto my hands one last time as Peacekeepers open the door and march him out. I'm alone again, but not entirely. There's something in my hand, dull gray and jagged. The word begins to form on my lips as I roll the crystal shard between my fingers

_Monocrystalline-Silicon_

It's beautiful, still warm from his hands, with threads of copper woven around it. He must have made this from stolen Factory parts as a token if I were to ever get reaped. Thoughts of suicide begin to flutter through my mind. The crystal is sharp, and I begin rubbing the edge against my fingertip to see if it is capable of breaking my skin. Better to bleed to death here by my own hands than to get savagely killed or starve to death. Just as thoughts of who they'd pick to replace my dead corpse as a tribute begin to phase through my mind, the door opens again.

It's Gase. I can feel every beat of her heart crying out to me in pain as we hold each other in a tight embrace. All our shared memories begin swimming back to me: the heat of her body as we used to share tight sleeping spaces during night shifts, the clutch of her hand as she pulls me over railings too high to climb, the smell of honey that always seems to linger around her neck.

"Do you think you have a chance of coming back?" She asks

"No" I mutter, bringing more tears to my eyes. Hope is the last emotion I'd want to feel now.

_Hope is a lie._

"You can win, you're smart. I've never met anyone as breathtakingly intelligent as you"

"So what? If I concentrate hard enough 23 other people will drop dead?"

"No, but if you put your mind into it you might stand a chance. You could survive. Run and hide until everybody else dies"

"Somehow I don't think I'll be the only one…"

"Listen, you were always the brightest bulb around here; one that never failed to light up the darkness that poverty and oppression has left in my soul. Please try to come home, for me?"

"I'll try. For us"

The Peacekeepers come and she's taken away. But just as her figure begins to pass under the door, she breaks free of their hands and begins moving towards me. In that instant, every moment we've spent together suddenly begins to add up and I know what she's after. I rise to my feet and close my eyes as I feel the kiss of another person on my lips for the very first time. The fury of her approach is a steep contrast with the softness of her kiss, and it leaves me reeling from pleasure. I collapse into the chair, giddy from the euphoric feeling of being kissed. The Peacekeepers manhandle her out of the room just as the last of her words are still echoing through my ears.

_"I just had to know how that felt"_

They're shouting and shoving her around now, but in the corner of my eye, I can see a big grin across her face as our eyes meet for the last time.


	4. An Omnivorous Fox

"You're kidding right?" Jupiter asks sarcastically.

I look down and shake my head, repeating my question over the sound of rain beating outside our train cabin.

"No Sir, I'm not. I haven't the slightest clue what's on the plate, Sir"

"Please call me Jupiter, or Jupe; I'm not some Peacekeeper frisking you for contraband. Also, that's meat you're looking at"

My eyes lift to look at Crys, who has already begun devouring his meat hungrily with his hands; neglecting the need to wait for an answer from Jupiter.

"What's a meat?" I ask innocently, prodding the brown slab in front of me with a spoon. An intriguing aroma wafts through the air, it doesn't smell _nice - _but it doesn't smell half-bad either.

"It's the flesh of killed animals, and you eat it with a knife" He sighs, shifting a table knife toward me.

"You guys kill animals and eat them?" I ask again, picking up the knife and spearing it through my meat. Before I can proceed any further, Jupiter places a fork into my other hand, and it suddenly makes sense. Before long, I have a bite-sized piece perched on a fork beneath my curious gaze. It looks hideous and weird; with traces of pink within it that could only be blood. But I'm going to die soon anyway, and I begin my first experience of eating meat. To my surprise, it's delicious, and I immediately begin cutting myself another piece.

"Well done! While table manners won't keep you alive in the Arena, being able to procure and eat meat might" Jupiter flashes a look at Crys, who has finished his meat and is looking back at him with a stuffed mouth. He mutters something along the lines of "How do you get meat in the games?" but it sounds garbled when he talks with his mouth full.

"YOU KILL!" Shouts a man behind me. He slams an empty beaker on the table, causing me to flinch and stick a chunk of meat into a cup of coffee instead of the gravy.

A man with a grey beard and bloodshot eyes collapses into the chair next to mine. He smells of liquor and blood.

"How nice of you to show up. I'd like to introduce the two of you to one of your mentors…" Jupiter says, shifting all manner of breakable tableware and sharp cutlery away from the drunk man.

"…Ray" I whisper, munching on my delicious coffee-flavored meat.

"I can understand from your knowledge of my name that my reputation has…preceded me" Ray mutters in my direction. Apparently his lack of sobriety has not affected the verbosity of his speech.

Crys swallows the rest of his meat and begins to ask a question, but he's quickly silenced by Ray's outstretched palm.

"Please, allow me to express my sincerest apologies at the manner of decorum today. After all, it is only for the duration of the Hunger Games that I am allowed the privilege of leaving District 5. My consumption of alcohol there has been severely…limited" He mouths off each word in rapid succession, before collapsing headfirst onto the table and upsetting a mug in the process.

An attendant appears and replaces the mug in its saucer. Crys raises his fork at her and requests another plate of meat.

"Well you'd have to wait until the Capitol then wouldn't you?" She says, not even looking up.

She's slim, with neatly-coiffed hair and a crisp white dress that could've been mistaken for a uniform anywhere. Crys apologizes profusely at his mistake while she takes a seat next to him. The proper way with which she dresses and crosses her legs could fool anyone into thinking she's from the Capitol. But she isn't.

"Hello Hertha" Jupiter says coolly. "Nice of you to join us"

The sight of our two mentors: one wasted from less than an hour's train ride out of the District, and the other looking immaculate – suggests that life was vastly different for either of them after their respective wins at the Hunger Games.

"I saw the Reapings" She points a finger in my direction "You looked scared shitless, and you looked pissed as all hell"

I nod silently while slicing another piece of meat and dipping it into the coffee, eliciting a scowl of disapproval from Jupiter

"Rage and fear. These are two emotions that will get you killed in the Arena. You need every bit of your mental and physical capacity to stay alive, and being angry or afraid will simply tie you up"

Ray slips off his chair and lands next to Jupiter's feet. He ignores him and inches his chair away slightly.

_Rage and Fear, I'll keep that in mind_

"I got hold of your school reports" Hertha's words are clear and authoritative. This woman means business.

"No you didn't" Crys scowls

"Yes I did" She says, placing two paper files on the table. "It seems that one of you is a genius and the other is an absolute animal"

"That narrows it down" I mutter under my breath, pointing at his empty plate with blood and food strewn all over

"Those are qualities that will keep you alive" She comments

"What? How does being an animal keep one alive?" I ask

"The animalistic instinct to kill does. We humans have a knack for compassion and mercy. If you're able to suppress the instinct, you stand a higher chance of winning, because every person you kill in the Arena brings you one step closer to going home" She says

"Is that how you won?" I enquire out of curiosity.

"No" She replies flatly

"Is that how he won?" I ask again, pointing at Ray, who has begun snoring away.

"You're a curious kitten aren't you? We'll save that for another day" She replies

"I'm ready to kill" Crys mutters under his breath, eyes filled with hate.

"Are you?" Hertha asks

"Yes, and I'm not even looking to win" He says matter-of-factly

Hertha looks at me in puzzlement. Somehow, I already know the answer.

"Why?" She asks.

"Because I don't have anything left to go home to"


	5. No Courage without Rage

_"You guys aren't really that bright are you?" _

The words reach the edge of my lips before I catch a glimpse of a waxing strip in one of the stylist's hands; and a straight-edge razor in the other. Their conversations are banal, devoid of all purpose save for being idle chatter that supplants even my classmate's hollow gossip. My encounter with the polite and well-mannered Jupiter had left me with modest expectations regarding Capitol Citizens. After all, they are the richer upper-class of Panem - with plenty of idle time left over due to their wealth, one would have expected them to engage in more intellectual pursuits.

Apparently not.

I resist the urge to ask them about meat, my curiosity about the strange food being unsatisfied from earlier. Soon, the waxing is over, and they begin styling my hair. The repetitive snipping of their scissors and the ever-present drone of Capitol prattle in my ears begins to lull me away to a deep place. Not sleep, but a place akin to daydreaming. I've done it before in lessons at school where the teacher goes on about topics I'm far too ahead in. This time I'm thinking about Hertha's words of advice, and how much they're closer to myself than I know.

_Rage _

It was mid-winter when they brought him in – a broken man whom I couldn't even recognize as my Father. After the tears had been shed and the tokens of condolences received, a feeling began to creep up within me - the feeling of rage. He went to find another job barely a week after the beating, but I saw it in his eyes too. That jovial, carefree man who taught me how to tie my shoelaces and how to brew coffee, became a silent shell of a person who couldn't look me in the eyes anymore. I used to tell myself that it was just me growing up, but the feeling remained no matter how hard I tried. I don't know how the courage came to me but I knew it was a way of dealing with the resentment that led me to begin stealing from Peacekeeper dormitories. It wasn't difficult, they didn't even lock their doors because no one in the right mind would've stolen from them. It didn't suppress my anger one bit, but it did instill a sick, twisted sense of justice within me, that what I did was righting the wrongs that they did to my Father.

One day I got caught.

It was slightly before evening, when I knew they would be out patrolling. I had only managed to find a loaf of bread and nothing else. Just when I was cursing my luck and about to sneak out, he appeared from behind a door - burly, drunk and huge. I knew from the stare in his eyes that he was a Peacekeeper, and he wasn't about to ask me a second time what a little girl was doing in his dormitory with a basket of bread. It took less than 3 seconds to get over my deer-in-the-headlights moment and to fly out the window where I knew a ladder would take me to the first floor and I could begin my escape from him. It would be easy, I thought; he's far too big and drunk to chase me down.

He didn't even have to.

The crackle of a radio set about "THAT DAMN KID STEALING OUR BREAD" sent swarms of Peacekeepers converging upon me before my feet even landed on the first floor. I had barely managed to duck a burst of pepper spray and a baton strike before slipping between a pair of legs and sprinting like a crazed animal around the edge of the barracks. More Peacekeepers began joining the chase, shouting and cursing. That's when I met up with Hertha's second emotion-of-the-day.

_Fear_

It sprang upon me like a wild beast – the cold sweat, panic and sense of doom. I burst around the corner of the razor wire fence knowing that I had just one more turn before they realized I was leading them in a circle and would just surround me. I would probably die too, over a loaf of bread nonetheless. So I fought the fear, pushed it down into my stomach and began to think clearly. There was no way I could've outran them, there're far too many. I'd have to break off their pursuit somehow. But how?

I don't know how it came to me, but my legs led me there before my mind could register its purpose. _The Gulch._ A 200-yard street that was barely two yards across at its widest. It separated the two largest housing complexes in District 5, and at this point in the afternoon, the women would be on the balconies taking in the laundry, and children would be playing in the corridors after school.

_I might get some help there_

It took about 20 yards of hard sprinting down the straight before the citizens of District 5 realized what was happening: a young girl clutching a loaf of bread running away from what must've been the entire Peacekeeping force of Panem bearing down on her. "Leave her alone!" A woman shouted from the balcony, "Pigs!" yelled another. Soon, objects started flying – pots, pans and crates. Someone threw a bucket of water, another flung a net that entangled them. It took all my energy to reach the end of the street when I realized that I haven't even been properly chased for the last hundred yards. Behind me was a mess of yelling and screaming Peacekeepers; held up by District 5's long suppressed resentment at their oppression.

It took all my courage to show up for work the next day.

I had always covered my hair in a neat handkerchief during my thefts to hide my identity; there aren't that many girls with red hair living in District 5. But was it enough? They looked more sullen than usual during roll-call, some even bore bruises on their heads from our little chase through the Gulch the day before. I could feel their eyes burning into me as I passed through the metal detectors. But in the end, all they gave me were suspicious glances and nothing else.

Apart from Gase - who thought it was bloody awesome; I had told only one other soul. There wasn't anyone else I trusted and my mother was strongly opposed to stealing of any sort. The next night, I curled up in the safety of my Father's arms while she was working at the scrapyard and murmured the truth about the little vixen who had gained notoriety for causing a ruckus in the Gulch. I looked up at him, expecting to find a scowl of disapproval or a disappointed look – but all I found was a smile of joy.

His first smile in a very long while.


	6. Conversations with a Stylist

"What're you smiling at?" A shrill chirpy voice rouses me from my thoughts.

A flamboyantly-dressed woman appears from behind me but she doesn't look in my eyes, continuing to meticulously inspect the work that her prep-team has done on me. It feels odd; being stark naked and propped up on a pedestal while she is so close I can feel her breath cascade over me. But the air in the room is just the right shade of warmth, so I keep my hands to my side and continue allowing her to survey my bare skin.

"Home" I reply. I don't mean to be discourteous. But after listening to the prep team's unintelligible prattle, I'm unsure of her ability to comprehend anything more than a short answer.

She ceases her inspection and I gaze upon her eyes for the first time – deep blue and unwaveringly intense. Almost at once I'm transported back a million miles to this morning where I was sitting on the rooftop and gazing into the infinite depth of Gase's eyes. The sensation of being uncovered in front of someone almost familiar causes me to feel naked and ashamed; and I begin to blush. She senses my shame and drapes a robe over me.

"Well, just do your best and you just might make it home, alright?"

It's obvious she's lying – I can tell from the way she breaks her eye-contact with me, the flick of her neon-purple hair and the sudden softness of her voice. It's not a deliberate lie; for sure, but more of a whitewashed one meant to elicit my compliance. Doesn't take a genius to know that District 5 loses every single year.

"You didn't really mean that, did you?" I reply. She looks into my eyes in surprise. This must be the first time a Tribute has ever challenged her.

"Look, I'm just trying to do my job. You have to look presentable for the…"

"For the Games? So I can die a pretty corpse?" My voice begins to quiver at the thought of my body lying on-screen; with flawless skin, impeccable hair, made-up lips slightly ajar in a cold stare of death.

"Well, you have a Tribute parade…and an interview…and…" She starts stammering

"And then a date with a wooden box?"

She chuckles, which I should find offensive at this point, but then the realization begins to dawn on me: _Every person who has stood before her in this room ended up dead._ She doesn't need to know about the inevitability of my impending death any more than I do.

"You have beautiful hair" She comments, running her hands through my now-soft and silky hair.

"Most girls at school just tease me about it"

"Well, you're the first redhead I've worked with and I think red's my new favorite color already"

I smile, knowing that deep down inside, she just wants to help. Even if it's just for a short while, even if I'm going to die anyway. Like the touch of Gase's lips to mine, there'll always be something to smile at before taking the long walk down Death's corridor.

"How many Tributes do you work on?" I ask

"Just you"

"What, Crys gets his own stylists?"

"Yes, every Tribute gets their own prep-team and stylists"

My mind begins to churn. 24 Tributes. That's nearly a hundred prep-people and stylists. Judging from the meticulous care with which they took to beautify every bit of my body – it would be safe to venture a guess that these people are professionals; probably only training and preparing to do this job all year. The amount of manpower and money thrown into such a trivial task is mind-boggling. Back home all the prep work I get involves tying my hair so that it doesn't get caught in machinery.

"That's 96 fully-paid Stylists. It seems like a pretty extravagant expense just to make us look good"

"Well, it's the biggest television show in the Capitol. Wait till you see what else they spend money on. Caesar Flickerman gets more than twenty stylists all on his own" She chuckles.

"Do you have to study for very long to be a Stylist?"

"It's almost like a life-long competition where there're different categories: hair, makeup, beauty and wardrobe. Only the very best get to work for the Games"

"So I'm looking at one of Panem's finest stylists right now?"

She giggles, but her shrill voice makes it sound more like the tweeting of a bird.

"You're a bit of a clever girl aren't you?" She says. "I've never had a Tribute who asked such deep questions"

"Well, I'm sorry. It's just that, since I'm going to die so soon, figured it wouldn't hurt to make a few friends on my way out"

She holds onto my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. Something I said must've tugged at her heart.

"You've some pretty mesmerizing eyes as well. What are they, Cerulean?"

"Turqoise" I say, repeating the name my mother taught me.

"Breath-taking" She replies, looking deep into me with her own deep blue eyes. A sudden warm feeling begins to envelop my face. I look away, not wanting her to know that her comments are making me blush. The comforting touch of her hands bring me back. As I look back into her captivating gaze, I can't help noticing; behind the purple hair and shrill voice, just how much she reminds me of Gase.

"We'll see if we can get you some sponsors from that alone"

Judging from the monstrosity of a Tribute Parade Costume sitting by the door,

_I doubt it. _


	7. Gaming the Odds

"We can't get you any sponsors." Ray's slurry voice fails to stir me from my careful examination of a piece of fish-meat.

"Oh? No one likes me?" I try to keep the surprise out of my voice, because I'm not. Neither am I shaken by his revelation, because – Sponsor or no Sponsor, I'm going to die in a week. Crys makes a muffled sound with his mouth full of meat that sounds vaguely like "I don't need any damn sponsors"

"Yes, the Capitol has an aversion to Red-haired Tributes, especially girls. No offense." He comments, refilling his glass from a decanter of brandy.

I pop the fish in my mouth and savor its light, delicate flavor. It's much less heavy than beast meat, which is what I've taken to calling the darker ones.

"How was training today?" Hertha asks, with a worried look on her face

"You meant - did I make any allies today?" I reply nonchalantly

"Yes Miss Smarty-Pants, I was getting there. So, no luck?"

I've always found it difficult to make friends, even in a completely safe environment like school. I was always the last person to get partnered for Power lab or Chemistry practical, and classmates only approached me for answers to the homework. And that was school – it's probably going to be hell convincing the other Tributes that we won't kill each other.

"No. I don't think this alliance thing is going to work" I comment between mouthfuls of sprouts and beast meat. Crys muffles a faint "I don't need any damn allies either" with his mouth full.

"You have to make allies, no one wants to sponsor you." She repeats

"And how does that explain my career-level line odds?" I reply.

The effect is unmistakable on everyone in the room with the exception of Crys, who has no idea what I just said and is still stuffing his face with meat. Ray looks at me with his mouth ajar and my stylist is smiling at Hertha.

"And how exactly did you figure out your line odds?" Ray asks

"The lift to the training center faces a square. There's a billboard with line odds far away and I can just make out that I've been going up from 15-1 to 7-1 for the past 3 days. That puts me higher than most girls and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that I'm not the deadliest-looking girl," I explain "Would anyone care to explain why?"

"Basically it means that people don't like you but they think you stand a chance. Have you been showing anything off at training recently?"

_Stand a chance. _Ray's words echo in my head. But this merely means that the odds are _projected_ in my favor.

"Nothing. Just plant knowledge, trapping and ropes. I was having fun with Crys at the Gauntlet until the Careers came and started being assholes to everyone."

"Well, maybe some Gamemakers took an interest in your performance. They can't keep their mouths shut when it comes to leaking Tribute information." Hertha comments

"Are you guys allowed to bet?" I ask. All of them shake their heads.

"Are you allowed to _take_ bets?" I ask again. The question takes them by surprise and Ray raises an eyebrow at me.

"What do you mean?" Ray asks. I've clearly piqued his interest. Next to drinking, gambling must be another one of his degenerate vices, and it kills him to be left out of the action.

"If you were sitting on the other side of the betting table, and someone wagered you 7-1 that I would win. Would you take his bet?"

"Well, that's pretty much the same as betting _against_ you isn't it?" He asks

"Yes, and don't worry about hurting my feelings, everyone here knows that I'm worth far less than 7-1." I reply with a sigh.

"Hey, just what exactly are you trying to get at?" Hertha asks.

My mind begins to churn, phrasing a reply which I'm sure they wouldn't understand on my first try. I've thought about this before, mostly in the elevator watching the other Tribute's line odds flicker up and down. But now that I know for sure that the odds are based on tangible misinformation, it'd be safe to venture an answer.

"If the odds drift based on the tributes performances, you could bet against me when the odds are low. Then I'll go ahead and stuff up my training; maybe get a poor score at the evaluation, so that you'll be free to bet on me when the odds go up. This way you'll be sure to get a profit regardless of me winning or losing. The system is so easy to manipulate it's no wonder you guys are not allowed to bet"

My words churn about in their heads. Crys still has no idea what I'm talking about and has moved on to dessert. But everyone else has stopped eating and simply has eyes fixed on me in cluelessness, followed by amazement.

Hertha's the first to get the idea, revealing a bright smile that crosses her face. Ray takes out a pen and begins scribbling a graph on his napkin. Our Stylists are discussing the concept between each other, still a little slow to understand.

"You're brilliant," Ray finally says. "It's amazing no one has thought about this before."

I swallow the last of my beast meat, looking down and poking at my vegetables with a fork.

"So, do you think that will get me some sponsors?" I timidly ask, afraid of what I would hear.

* * *

It's past bed time, but I tussle about in the sheets trying to suppress whatever false hopes I have of going home. I could try to sleep now, but the nightmares would surely come.

Time for some hot chocolate then.

I quietly venture into the kitchen and press a button that dispenses a mug of the good stuff – complete with marshmallows speckled with cinnamon. The warmth from the drink is blissful, especially after I've snuck in a bit of Ray's leftover brandy. I press myself back into the couch and gaze curiously at a mantelpiece lying high above an elaborate vase of tall flowers. It's made of wood, with a long black handle lined with string. The unfamiliar effects of alcohol begin to enter my brain, and curiosity takes hold of me. I wander around the lounge looking for something to stand on that will allow me to reach it, but all the chairs and tables are too heavy to shift.

He appears almost instantaneously when I press the button - an Avox, tall with long arms. He obliges my trivial request without question. I thank him for his help as I run my fingers over the strings that line this simple yet elegant wooden contraption. There's a bow-like stick that comes with it, although I have no idea how the two are supposed to go together.

He doesn't leave after I've thanked him, instead looking upon me with puzzlement. As I shift the mantelpiece around in my hands, he answers my curiosity by placing the curved end on my shoulder. I would have expected Avoxes to have cold hands devoid of life, but his are warm and comforting. He shifts the handle away from my chin and places the stick in my other hand. Suddenly it makes sense now, and I have my first go at bringing the long-overlooked mantelpiece back to life.

_Screech_.

The first sound is harsh and sharp, and it pains my ears. But he tips the angle of the stick slightly, and curls my fingers around the wooden handle. This time the sound is blissfully soft and deep, and the smile on his wrinkled face tells me that I'm doing it right. He shifts my fingers on the handle again, and the sound comes out different – high and almost melodic. I experiment with the positions of my fingers, sliding the stick back and forth and conjuring all manner of sweet-sounding music. A door suddenly slams open, and he leaves hurriedly at the sight of a drunken Ray staggering out of his room.

"What the hell are you doing up at midnight playing a fucking violin?" He yells.


	8. One Last Hurrah

**A/N: Part of Foxface's interview answers and Caesar Flickerman's lines lifted directly from ****_The Hunger Games_**** (2012) directed by Gary Ross. I claim no ownership. **

* * *

"Told you I'd make you look beautiful," she whispers in my ears before uncovering my eyes. The words of denial reach my lips, as they always do on the rare occasion some generous soul tells me that I'm pretty. But after gazing upon this being in the mirror – so unrecognizable yet so undoubtedly _me_ – I swallow my self-doubt and nod in agreement.

"Well you're throwing fine silk on an old goat. Wouldn't take much to make me look great," I reply in my best attempt at self-depreciating humour.

"Keep up the wit and you'll do fine for the interview. You might even pique some interest from…"

"…sponsors, yea got it," I reply, rolling my eyes at the prospect of putting on a show.

"Just don't be too much of a smartass alright?" she warns.

"Why's that? You afraid that this much intelligence would cause their brains to explode?" I ask with raised eyebrows.

"Let's just say that the Capitol isn't really fond of tributes who could …outsmart them," she answers with a tone of trepidation in her voice.

* * *

The sound of Caesar Flickerman's voice from behind the curtain jogs my memory to the nightmare I had about him before the Reaping. The fear causes my mouth to turn dry, and my confidence begins to ebb. I can't stop thinking about how uncomfortable I feel; it's been a very long time since I've ever worn a dress, and the heels feel like stilts to me. How do the Capitolites do it - trading away comfort and practicality for the momentary grandiose of beauty?

The answer dawns on me as the curtains are drawn and I stand face to face with Caesar Flickerman's grotesquely made-up face

_That's right, they're stupid._

I struggle to put on my most brilliant smile to him and the crowds of people clapping politely. The dress pools around my thighs when I sit and I adjust it awkwardly before crossing my legs in the most elegant way I can muster.

"So, you're from District 5. Our audience is curious as to what a beautiful girl like you does back home, would you care to enlighten us?" he asks. I know that he's trying to help me, but all I can see are the people craning in to hear what I have to say, eager on my every word.

"I go to school, and work at a power plant," I reply, right before cursing myself in the head for providing such a weak answer.

"A power plant? I guess you're our most _electrifying_ tribute then!" he stands up and shouts to the audience, causing them to roar in laughter.

"Yes! It's a _shockingly_ dangerous place!" I quip, eliciting more applause.

"How do you think working in a Power Plant would've prepared you for the Games?" he asks.

"Well Caesar, in such a massive industrial complex, there's danger at every corner. We really have to think on our feet to avoid getting injured or worse," I reply with a little quiver in my voice.

"So you're good at adapting to situations then?"

"I find that if I can apply myself to the situation present, I will be able to figure it out," I pause for a split second to think, "While most of the other Tributes are skilled with swords or bows. I don't need anything but this," I say, pointing to my head.

The audience claps politely. I can tell that no one wants to hear about how smart I am. Intelligence doesn't excite them in the slightest, not when they want to see 24 kids hack away at each other.

"There have been rumours going around that you did something absolutely spectacular during the private training session. Unfortunately, you merely received a training score of 5," the camera pans to the Gamemakers and they're nodding their heads. "Would you like to tell us exactly what went on during the session?"

My mind begins to race, thinking of a cover up story that wouldn't betray the reason behind getting such a low score.

"I played them the violin, and blew them away," I look over at the Gamemakers smiling and clapping, obviously having been impressed at what I did, "unfortunately, I don't think playing a violin is going help me very much. Which explains the low score. But I'm glad I learnt how to play, even it was just to show off."

"That's incredible! I wish you the best of luck, although I don't think you're one to depend on it," he says with a wink, "Thank you, lovely to see you. Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen, give a big round of applause for the most _electrifying _Tribute from District 5!"

_Oh, Caesar, just admit that you forgot my name. _


	9. Hope Shimmers

**A/N: Slightly AU, District 5 mentors weren't stated as being covertly involved with the rebellion in Catching Fire. **

I've barely gotten a minute into my last proper dinner when the mentors barge into the room demanding to see me.

"You have to come with us, now," Hertha whispers in my ear.

"Oh I'm sorry, I happen to be enjoying what could be my last ever din…" I reply, before being cut off my the ferocious grip of Ray's hand on my wrist

"No time for being a smartass, this is important! You have to come with us now!" Ray snarls, taking the soup spoon from my hand.

I give them a nod of compliance and look over to Crys, who's stuffing his mouth and has no interest in the commotion. Jupiter casually waves me away as though he knows what's going on. I've never seen Hertha so anxious before, and the tremble in Ray's hands suggests that he's not used to being sober. He pulls me from the table and we make a quick exit into the elevator.

"Here," Hertha points to a lid beneath the row of silver buttons from _1_ to _12 _and _T_. Ray pries off the lid with my soup spoon, revealing a jumble of wires pegged into a green circuit board.

"We don't have much time, you're going into the Arena tomorrow and we don't know if you can make it out alive," Ray says and his voice drops to a dead whisper, "we know that this elevator is supposed to go a hidden basement."

"You're letting me escape?" I ask with arched eyebrows, "a little too good to be true isn't it?"

They sigh and roll their eyeballs.

"Not from here silly. Please, just get us to the basement, we can't get caught doing this," Hertha says in a soft voice.

I examine the circuit board closely. There're 14 ports with wires going in, but only 13 buttons for each of the District's floors and the Training center. The instinct of rewiring transmission switchboards filters through my weeks of disconnection with all things electrical, and I switch the 14th port's wire with the one meant for District 1's floor.

"That should do it," I reply, punching _1_. The elevator rumbles into motion and I turn around out of habit to look at my final line odds before the Games begin.

"Hey, I went back to 7-1 after the interview. Not bad eh?" I quip upon seeing my odds flickering upwards

"If you can pull this off, you'll be getting a 1-1 for staying alive," Ray says in a serious voice.

"Pull what off?" I ask, turning to Hertha, who only has a finger on her lip to enforce my silence.

The elevator plummets further than I'm used to. After a heart-stopping ride into the pit of the Capitol, it comes to a halt and the door opens to an empty concrete corridor. Ray and Hertha sigh in relief. I replace the wiring and he jams the lid back in place. The smell of metal and the sound of machinery begins to invade my senses, and all of a sudden I'm transported a million miles away back to the place that I've grown to be a part of.

"This is a utilities basement isn't it?" I ask, looking at the lengths of pipes and cables running along the walls. They don't answer, and Hertha still has her finger on her lips in silence.

We walk past a dozen unmarked rooms and make several turns into what must be a maze of pump rooms, transmission cabinets and sewage disposal areas. Eventually we make one final turn around a corner and come face to face with a Peacekeeper. I gasp and flinch away from Hertha's arm in my usual reflex of seeing one of them, but she coaxes me forward with a steady hand.

It's almost unnoticeable, but with all my senses heightened while walking around amidst the familiar whirr of electricity and chugging of machinery; it's impossible to miss. Ray touches his hand to the Peacekeeper's glove and he opens the door. As the helmeted, nameless man places his hand into a pocket, I see the unmistakable glint of a vial.

"Did you just bribe that Peacekeeper with Morphling?" I ask, once the doors close behind us. We're in some kind of Electrical Distribution room, with breaker panels and switches lining all four walls. I could almost be at the Power Plant right now, besides the fact that everything is clean and free of coal-dust.

"You're just too smart of a cookie aren't you?" Hertha says, finally relaxing.

Ray doesn't relax. Not until he places a flat slate on top of a breaker panel which begins playing music_ – _An operatic piece that would be soothing and relaxing if it weren't so _loud. _

"You brought me here to share your love for Capitol opera? Is that how I'm going to win?" I ask sarcastically.

"Shut up and listen," he says harshly into my ear. The din of the music makes saying anything in a normal voice impossible, "we might have a way of getting you out of the Arena."

"I think we're all very clear that the odds aren't exactly in my fav…" I reply

"Listen, smartass. This isn't about you winning," he says in my ear.

"So you want me to die then, is that it?" I reply in anguish.

"How do you die? What happens when you die? And no, this isn't a rhetorical question," Hertha says

"Well, I suppose your heart stops beating and everything goes black. Obviously I haven't tried dying before," I answer.

"Do you happen to know what a cardiac arrest is?" She asks, pulling out a clear vial from her suit. It's tiny; slightly larger than a fingertip and it shimmers as she holds it up against the lights. Suddenly, the thoughts and ideas begin racing through my head as the potential of whatever she's holding between her fingers takes root in my mind. I lean back against the wall as the gears of my brain begin evaluating every possible outcome. The idea is brilliant; but like the first man who had a streak of genius and thought of harnessing electricity from the sun, there will always the sticky bit about _implementing it_.

"That's impossible," I conclude, "there's no way you can induce a cardiac arrest and miraculously wake up on the other end. Ten minutes without oxygen and any human brain, regardless of intelligence, turns into a potato."

"We know, and we have all that figured out. Let's just say that the medical profession isn't too keen on whatever's going on in the Games and we have a couple of…doctors on the inside who are willing to help," Ray says.

"We have a friend from District 3 who built us a miniaturized turbine that can be surgically attached to keep human blood flowing in the absence of a pulse. The procedure will be done in secret once your body gets removed, and they'll attach an intravenous bag of oxygen-rich fluid to keep your blood oxygenized. Once all that is completed, you get placed in a wooden box and sent to god-knows where. But we'll come to the resuscitation part later," Hertha explains.

"It would help for you to lose a few pounds in the Arena too, although I don't think it'll be that difficult. We can't have anyone suspecting anything when your coffin feels a little heavier because of the…oxygen tank to keep you from suffocating," Ray continues.

My knees feel weak and I crumble to the ground as their words begin swimming around in my head. The pieces all begin falling into place now, but with each piece of the puzzle in place; more and more questions are still unanswered.

"It's still impossible," I say, "for you to get that drug to me and for me to use it in front of all the cameras."

"That's the difficult part, we can't get anything in because you don't have any damn sponsors," Ray says.

"I could bring it in," I suggest.

"That's out of the question," Hertha says, "security is impenetrable at the launch facility. It's tighter than ever since they found a gun in one of the rooms. Could you imagine a Tribute starting the bloodbath with a fucking gun?"

_That'll make for an awesome show, _I think

"Yea, so we're stumped at how we're supposed to deliver it to you," Ray says

Ray sits on the floor next to me and lights a cigarette. For a moment we all think in disillusionment while listening to the operatic overture; hoping, but not believing, that something would come up.

"Do you think I'll have enough sponsors by the Feast?" I ask, more testing for a possibility rather than suggesting a solution.

"We don't need sponsors for the…Feast," Hertha says, before her eyes start to light up with an idea.

"That's it!" Ray exclaims excitedly, "oh wait, how exactly are we supposed to put it in the feast pack? Don't we just suggest a gift and it gets placed in the Cornucopia?"

"I know the woman who's in charge of printing the notes inside sponsor gifts, she used to be a…customer of mine," Hertha says with a strained voice.

"And what's she supposed to do, encourage the heck out of her?" Ray asks.

"Soak it," I interrupt, taking the vial from Hertha's hand and examining it closely, "Soak the note with this,"

"And you'll eat it discreetly!" Hertha says, "That's genius!"

Hertha gives me a hug but I'm still looking at the vial of shimmery liquid and thinking deeply about everything it represents. It's so small and delicate even a pinch of my fingers could crush it. But here is a key that could unlock the cold jail cell of death that fate has thrown me into.

I only have one more question. "Why me?"

"Are you kidding? Have you even looked at Crys? He'll probably crush this without even knowing what it's for," Ray pauses to take a long drag on his cigarette, "the sheer amount of risk involved with pulling off something this complicated is high enough that we have to be _absolutely_ sure that the Tribute involved is smart enough to know how to do it without getting caught."

"Listen, this is about more than yourself. We might be compromising ourselves by telling you this, but not everyone in Panem agrees with the Hunger Games or with the Capitol. If we're able to successfully bring you out alive, it'll be a massive propaganda boost for the Reb…" Hertha's words get cut off by the sudden grasp of Ray's hand on her shoulder.

"Just think about your loved ones and try your best not to be seen when you eventually do it alright?" Ray interjects.

"And remember that it's very likely that this won't work," Hertha says, cracking whatever fragile hopes this delicate glass vial has brought to me.

"What makes you say that?" I ask.

"Because we tried it three years ago," Ray says dejectedly, stubbing out his cigarette on the floor, "the boy didn't make it."


	10. From Home to Stockyard

"Don't go in there," Crys says softly, as the pain of an injection hits my arm, "don't run into the middle when it starts. You deserve your shot at winning."

"And you don't?" I ask, rubbing the tracker inside my arm while the Hovercraft begins to whirr into motion.

"Seriously, I don't. You're a good girl. Besides, I don't think you'd stand a chance if we ever go face to face by the Cornucopia, and that's the last thing I'd want to happen," he says, flexing his knuckles out in front of him. They're calloused and reddened from the hours of sparring he's done during training.

"I don't think any of us deserve to die. We're just unlucky enough to get chosen," I say, leaning back and trying to avoid the intimidating stare of the Careers seated across me.

"Between you and me, I'd reckon you have a higher chance of actually winning this," he replies with a dejected voice, "I'm just here to give everyone a good show, and then die."

"Crys, I don't think I like shows anymore, and it'd pain me to put one on just to have a chance of going home"

"Don't you ever think about going home?" he asks, looking at his hands.

His words bring tears to my eyes as I think about everything that's been torn away from me: the taste of sprouts and cabbage, lavender coffee, cramped staircases and mazes of corridors to get lost in, even the Power Plant and its rusty charm. Most of all, listening to the comforting words of my mother, feeling the touch of my father's hand to my cheek, and seeing the brilliant smile Gase has which never fails to light up my day.

"All the time," I whisper, looking down and trying my best not to cry.

* * *

It's cold, Spartan, and devoid of all comfort. Everywhere the polished green tiles look upon me like a multitude of eyes, watching my every move intensely. After all, this room was built for the sole purpose of containing _me_. In the corner of the launch room a tube stands open, buzzing with an ominous hum and awaiting a Tribute to be fed into its gaping mouth.

"Awesome, I couldn't have asked to die in more comfort," I say to my stylist, putting on the last pieces of Arena clothes. The shirt fits nicely, the pants are nearly identical to the ones I use at work, and the boots are strikingly familiar to my old rubber work-boots, despite being made of soft leather.

"Don't count yourself out just yet," she says, slipping the jacket over my shoulders, "just survive until the feast and you'll be alright."

"You know?" I ask, my eyes widening. She places a finger on my lip in silence, looking over at the door where Peacekeepers are sure to be guarding the other side.

"You wouldn't have been chosen if Ray and Hertha didn't see something special in you," she says in a cryptic language meant to confuse whoever could potentially be listening in.

"I don't even know how far away the Feast could be. It could be days, even weeks before it happens. What if there're only a few Tributes left? Shouldn't I just try to win?" I ask.

She takes out a hair brush and motions for me to sit on her lap.

"This isn't the first time I've been a stylist, and I've never worked with a Tribute who went on to become a Victor," she says, brushing out my hair and tying them into Fox ears like how my mother used to do before Reapings, "but I've been in the Hunger Games industry long enough to be able to tell you this: _no one really wins the Games_. You start losing the moment your name gets pulled out. Winning the Games doesn't change anything."

My mind drifts back to the Mentors. Ray with his drunken habits and always trying to compensate for something. The guilt, either from the blood he has shed or the blood he has seen being shed under his watch year after year, must have put him into the deplorable state of perpetually attempting to gain redemption. Most people would think that Hertha fares better than him. But after the many weeks of looking past her immaculate dressing and into those empty eyes, I can only guess that it has something to do with her mysterious absences at night and the way she avoids my glances in the morning.

The touch of her hand to mine returns me to the immediacy of my fate. As she draws her hand away, I see something round and unrecognizable, until the warmth of its presence reminds me of my father_. _

"We had to re-submit it twice to the review board after it got rejected. It was too sharp and they thought it could be a weapon. By the time we had it filed down to an acceptable shape, it barely resembled the original token. This must mean a lot to you, so I hope you understand."

"No, it's perfect," I reply, examining the now-spherical black crystal ball bound with copper thread. It even comes suspended on a necklace, which I place around my neck and tuck beneath my shirt.

_30 Seconds_, a female voice buzzes from the loudspeakers.

I rise from her lap and look into her deep blue eyes. The memory of Gase comes through so strongly that I have to tear my eyes from hers and look upon her purple hair and pink lips to remind myself - this woman belongs to the Capitol. Still, the resemblance is uncanny, and it brings back the memory of our last moments together.

"Thank you," we say at the same time, before she wraps her arms around my trembling body in a tight hug.

"Good luck, although I don't think you'll need it," she says, holding my shoulders and leading me to the tube.

I turn around slowly when I reach the edge of the tube, just _needing_ to look upon her face again as it's comforting to be reminded of Gase in my final moments. A false comfort perhaps, one that distracts me from the fact that I am going to die. My skin turns warm and a blush spreads across my face as I look at her lips and remember the feeling of Gase's against mine.

_Fuck it, I'm dead anyway_.

I only have to take three steps in her direction for her to know what I'm after. She bends her knees to put herself at my height, and our lips touch in a momentary explosion of pleasure cut short by the announcer beginning a 5 second countdown. I inhale deeply against her neck, trying to store enough of her cotton-candy scent in my lungs to bring into the Arena. The euphoric, heady pleasure of our kiss leaves me staggering with delight, and I stumble my way backwards into the Launch tube just in time for the doors to close around me.

The look on her face spells confusion. She touches her lips and looks down at the floor, wondering what the kiss meant. But as the Launchpad begins to rise, she walks over to me; her confused expression replaced by a big smile matched only by the one on my face. I can feel the warmth of her fingers on the glass as she touches them to mine for the last time.

_At least I'm going to die with a smile on my face. _


	11. Feet Ready, Heartbeat Steady

**A/N: Bloodbath follows Movie Chronology.**

* * *

_"Oh terrific, hand District 7 the win on a silver platter and give everyone else the finger," _I think to myself, surveying the expanse of trees behind me.

The boy from 7 is on the pedestal next to mine, with a confident grin on his face. His partner stands a few places to his right, and they're both eyeing the pair of axes stacked neatly on top of a crate.

_They're going to go for it, that's two people who aren't going to chase me._

The girl from 12 is next to me, and she's eyeing a shiny bow - all strung up, complete with a sheath of arrows. She'd probably fight with Glimmer over it and get mauled by the other Careers. I've seen her district partner talking to them during training, which could be a signal for an alliance forming. It's a guess, but he'll probably be going into the middle, during the bloodbath or later. Too bad I can't stick around to see what happens when they eventually meet.

_Looks like your romantic angle isn't going to work anymore, Lover-boy. _

One physically intimidating figure towers over us. The boy from 11 – he's staring intensely at a reaping scythe beneath the Cornucopia. Given that no one's stupid enough to take him on; it's unlikely he'll back away from a free lunch. His district partner would definitely be going straight to the trees; I've seen her climb during training and she's very agile. I wouldn't discount her being able to kill me yet; but I'd rather encounter her in the woods than someone bigger.

The other Tributes are a toss-up. The Careers are definitely going after their respective specialties: swords, spears and knives. My eyes flitter to the glinting points of those weapons and I swallow hard at the thought of my life ending at one of their tips. Maybe it'll be quick, like a decapitation from Cato's sword. That'll be better than getting speared through the stomach by Marvel or stuck in multiple body parts by Clove's knives. I start feeling faint at the thought of dying, and I jam my hands into my empty pockets; gripping tightly at the fabric to keep from passing out and blowing myself up.

_Think. _I whisper, my voice drowned out by the throbbing boom of my own heart. _Think through the fear._

The boys from 10 and 8 are my biggest concerns. I've managed to eliminate the Tributes who will be going into the middle or who are too far away to chase me. Except those two, who are nearby and hold enough of a physical presence to close the gap and kill me without any weapons. I discreetly look into their eyes, attempting to gauge each of their intentions. 8 looks like he's ready to join in the fray, eyes locked in front and legs poised to sprint. But 10 doesn't look too sure, so he'll probably be running away. I brace my feet against the pedestal and copy the posture of 8, hoping it'll misinform anyone trying to guess my plans.

The gong sounds. I turn and sprint hard; the screams of dying children giving flight to my feet.

I keep the boy from 10 fixed at the edge of my vision all the way into the woods. He doesn't notice me, but he's surprisingly swift. Before long he has outran me all the way up the slope and into the deeper part of the forest. I keep running hard towards the slope, attempting to put as much distance between me and everyone else as possible. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me that we're the only ones who made it into this sector.

_I have to watch; I have to know what's going on. The bloodbath is too important to miss. _

My eyes jump from tree to tree before seeing a tall one with a low fork twenty yards away, with a branch extending towards the Cornucopia. I sprint hard towards it, building enough momentum to leap onto the fork. As I climb the branches, the fear of falling begins to creep into me, like how I hesitate while climbing across large voids at the power station. But the wood is sturdy, and tree bark imparts a friction to my hands similar to rusty steel. Before long I'm perched at an optimal surveillance point and begin making mental notes.

No amount of brutal Peacekeeper raids I've experienced could have prepared me for the sight of the bloody mess lying around the Cornucopia. There's literally blood and dead bodies _everywhere_, and I clasp a hand to my mouth as the feeling of turning sick threatens to make me throw up. I make a cursory glance at the bottom of the tree to ensure that no one has followed me before forcing myself to make more detailed observations of the aftermath. The Careers are going around hacking away at wounded Tributes unlucky enough to remain alive. As predicted, Peeta Mellark from 12 has joined the Careers in an alliance, having been granted the right by Cato to wield a spear. The boy from 3 is with them as well, alive and uninjured, which is extremely puzzling. Everyone else is dead or has fled into the woods. Since the reaping scythe is gone and Thresh is nowhere to be seen, he must have taken it and fled successfully. The axes remain untouched, so the pair from 7 must have been killed. I try to make out which bodies belong to who but they're all so mutilated, it'll be a miracle if I find anyone-

_Oh god, Crys is dead. _

His body lies on the grass a short distance from the Cornucopia; the bloodstained weapon in his hand signifying that he managed to make at least one kill before being slashed viciously across the abdomen. He doesn't have any parents who could be watching, or siblings for that matter, and it's unlikely anyone will be missing him. I knew he was going to die, but he's from home, and now he's gone; in a particularly grotesque manner nonetheless, with intestines showing and blood everywhere.

_I think I'm going to throw up._

I gingerly ease myself off the tree, watching and listening all the time for Tributes nearby. The sight of the girl from 8 crashing through the woods sends my body slamming onto the forest floor in panic. She doesn't see me, and I make a mental note of her path. The sight of Crys' eviscerated body hasn't left my mind and my face feels cold. In an effort to keep my circulation going, I push my body off the ground and begin running away from the Bloodbath. My steady jog rises into a sprint as I plot out a path that will avoid me running into the Tributes from 8 and 10.

My legs barely make it twenty yards before they send me slamming hard into another Tribute. I look into her rage-filled eyes and whisper a quick goodbye to my parents, knowing that I'll soon be dead.


	12. Everybody's Watching

_"Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire!" _

Caesar Flickerman's words echo through my head as she stares back at me. There's fury in her eyes; a pure bloodlust I've seen before in the faces of Peacekeepers – and it sends fear rippling through my body like a freezing wind. My hands begin to shake and my joints turn cold from realizing I'll be dead in less than a minute. It takes two successive attempts to swallow my fear before I begin thinking straight. She's bigger than me and it'll take less than a few seconds of struggling before she dominates my diminutive frame and closes her hands around my throat. My eyes drop to see the knife in her hand and the thought of it going through my throat flashes across my mind.

_I'm chuffed now aren't I? _I think, feeling the paralyzing fear overwhelm every muscle in my body.

I swallow my fear again, clutching at the leaves and dirt on the ground. A good fistful in her face could buy me those life-saving three seconds it takes for me flee. All I need now is for her to make a move. But she doesn't. The rage in her eyes dissipates, replaced by a look I've never seen before.

_Run you fool, _those grey eyes tell me, _what the hell are you waiting for?_

She jerks towards me in aggression and I flinch. Her lips part, as if she wants to tell me something. Whatever it is she means to say, I don't stick around to find out. Her hesitation gives me enough time to jump to my feet and escape. I look over my shoulder quickly to ensure she isn't following me, before dropping my sprint to a more sustainable pace. It had been a nagging doubt in my mind, how the Capitol could put 24 children in the same place and expect _all_ of them to try and kill each other. I've always thought I was alone in this, but after seeing the look in Katniss' eyes and being shown mercy; I'm more than sure - not everyone came here prepared to kill.

The deep woods are definitely out of bounds now. Three tributes in the same sector makes hiding and surviving way too risky. Instead, I begin running in a direction perpendicular to the Cornucopia, staying out of sight and attempting to find concealed surveillance points to plan my next move. The indentations in the forest floor where the ground sinks into shallow trenches make for tempting spots to lie and watch the others in concealment. But I think of Rue, and how she could spot my body a mile away from the trees. It'd be easy too, my jacket offers no camouflage whatsoever and my hair is red -

_Oh god my hair_.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks and I frantically pat my hair down in a panic, trying in vain to hide the red mess on my head. It sticks out against the green backdrop like a candle in the darkness. Thankfully, the jacket comes with a hood and I cover myself in a hurry before ducking low and scampering for cover. Why couldn't the Gamemakers pick a lovely autumn forest instead of a lush green one? Now I'm definitely sure the Capitol hates red-haired girls.

I stumble upon a large boulder and scurry behind it, catching my breath after the exhausting run. My throat is parched and I definitely have to do something about water very soon before dehydration sets in. But first: a solution for fixing my god-awful red hair. I hold my breath to hear for Tributes before going into a low-crawl towards an oak branch lying amidst a bed of leaves. It's long and thin, and I begin chipping off bits of bark to reveal the soft interior. To my delight, it's dark and smooth, and I start peeling off long silvers of oak wood along the grain until I have a bundle of wood threads. With these I fashion a makeshift hair-net interlaced with green leaves from the forest floor. It's not perfect, but way better than walking around with red hair announcing my position to the whole Arena.

I hold the hairnet against the forest to gauge its effectiveness and knot in a few more brown leaves to break up the shape of my face. The new camouflage gives me enough confidence to crawl behind the last line of trees separating the woods from the plains. I lie prone against the grass and allow a tiny gap for my eyes to spy on the Cornucopia.

The bodies have been removed by Hovercrafts, leaving patches of maroon marking out their final resting places. The cannon starts booming and I count off the number of fallen, tallying them with the Tributes seen gathering the remaining supplies strewn around the plains. I had hoped for more deaths; but with half the Tributes eliminated after less than two hours, my odds of outright _winning_ have doubled.

However, there're five more Tributes who aren't in my sights. 8, 10, Thresh, Rue and Katniss; they're the ones who worry me. With the Careers, their strategy has been the same every year: control the supplies and use it as a strategic advantage to search and destroy the others who are forced to live off the earth and will be hard-pressed to put up a fight; especially when faced with the numerical advantage and superior training they possess. It's easy to survive when pitted against their predictability, but the tactics of the other Tributes are a mystery.

_Especially _Katniss Everdeen. With her magical 11 at training and a strong, fiery image; she'll be getting gifts faster than she can open them for sure. Maybe she was so confident about getting a bow that she didn't even bother fighting for the one at the Cornucopia. But she spared my life, and I can never shake the thought that it'll be my life I'd have to repay her with if we ever end up in the final two.

_I'm not going to the final two, idiot. _

I push away the glimmering hope of my mentors' rescue plan and begin thinking about my own survival. My lips are parched and water is now a top priority. The most immediate source, the Cornucopia Lake, is out of bounds. There's too much Career presence in its immediate vicinity to make it a viable long- or short-term answer. I edge myself past the tree-line and press my chin into the soil, watching intently all the time.

They've picked up their respective weapons now: Cato has his sword, Clove's bristling with knives, Marvel has a cluster of spears, Glimmer has her bow, and the boy from 3 has a shovel. His choice of weaponry is puzzling, but I'm more interested in Peeta filling up water canteens from the Lake as ordered by Cato. He takes a drink from one of them and brings them back to the Cornucopia, eliminating the possibility of poisoned water in the lake. The effluent current causes leaves to float across the surface - suggesting that it's not a still body of water but one being fed by a source, and I make it a goal to exploit this revelation.

It's easy to see the power balance in the Career pack. Cato has appointed himself the leader and is ordering everyone around. But the two outsiders from District 3 and 12 are the worst off. It's difficult to look into their eyes from this distance, but from the way their heads slump, they must be scared shitless or at least unwilling to participate in this unholy alliance. While they're distracted with unboxing supplies, I begin skulking my way around to the edge of the lake. This painstaking movement involves getting on my feet and low-running for a few yards before hitting the floor to watch and listen. It's slow and tiring, and the paranoia of being seen is so intense that my neck and eyeballs begin to hurt from constantly looking over my shoulder.

The hard work pays off when I reach a shallow stream feeding into the Cornucopia Lake, and I bury myself in the leaves watching and waiting for other Tributes before allowing myself a refreshing drink of water. The sun is beginning to set, so I spend the remaining hours of daylight searching for shelter. Unfortunately, there are none in my immediate vicinity; hence I make do with a shallow indentation under an opening in the canopy of trees. It's not much, but I cover myself with leaves and the hairnet and hope that Rue doesn't see me.

The anthem plays and faces of the dead are shown in the sky. A pang of grief hits me when Crys' face appears; but he's gone and there's nothing else to remember apart from the hope that he found whatever redemption he was looking for in the bloodbath. The red-haired girl from District 9 is dead too, and I'm sure the Capitol must have played her death over and over again to the glee of their audiences. I close my eyes and attempt to sleep, hoping that the sound of my stomach rumbling isn't loud enough to be heard from the Career camp. It's difficult to fall asleep knowing that I could be killed at any moment, but the adrenaline of hiding and running all day has taken its toll on my mind, and I slip away into a deep slumber.

But somewhere in the middle of the night, the impact of a violent collision with my face jolts me awake, and I immediately realize that _I might have overstayed my welcome in the Arena. _


	13. Not Alone, Not Afraid

I gasp and flail my arms wildly, trying to fend off the aggressor – but there's no one; just the cool pre-dawn breeze and moon-lit sky barely giving luminance through the forest canopy. I frantically touch my face and body, half-expecting my fingers to encounter blood or missing body parts, but there's nothing; I'm perfectly fine. What happened then? The spiky touch of a hard, rough object by my ears gives me the answer. It's serrated, round in shape, and smells of wood. I hold it against the moonlight and the plant trainer's words seep back into my memory - _Pine cone_.

My puzzlement doesn't stop there. I remember sleeping under an oak tree, with a gap in the leaves above me. How likely would it be a Pine cone could come flying out of nowhere and land squarely on my head? The Gamemakers must really hate me if this is one of their tricks; startling the red-haired girl awake so the audience can have a laugh at how wound up she is.

_Thunk._

Another Pine cone strikes me on the shoulder. This time, I'm awake enough to determine its source, and I look in that direction to see the origin of my Pine cone-flinging antagonist. It's difficult though, the moonlight barely pierces through the trees and everything is pitch black like when the power goes out back home. I squint into the darkness and make out a faint silhouette lining a tree branch ten feet in the air. It could be anyone, or any_thing_ for that matter. But I wait for it to move again, and the fuzzy outline of her hair against the backdrop of the sky gives her identity away.

_Rue._

How on _earth _did she find me? Perhaps I've been overconfident in my stealth all this while and Rue is my real competition at hiding. After all, I haven't seen her since the gong went off and she's managed to uncover my position in pitch darkness despite my best attempts at camouflage. The faint shadow of her arm extends from the tree branch, and she's pointing at the Career camp. I turn over in my hiding nest and shift myself forward for a better look, dragging my chin along the soil the whole time.

There're shadows emerging from the tents. The clinking of weapons suggests they're mobilizing against someone. I look at the direction they've begun running towards and discover the source of their interest: a dim light punctuating the expanse of the deep woods which I've fled from yesterday. I count the shadows running from the camp: five of them. Which leaves one more on watch by the Cornucopia. From the size of his shadow I can tell it's the boy from 3, and there's a faint outline of a spear across his lap. My attention immediately turns to the supplies still strewn across the Cornucopia. The careers have ransacked the more valuable crates and packs close to the center, but there're still plenty ripe for the picking. My stomach begins rumbling, reminding me there could possibly be food inside those bags. This would be a tremendous opportunity to sneak in and help myself to the supplies – _if only they weren't being guarded_. As I begin thinking of ways to elude the solitary guard in the middle, the trees above me emit a slight rustle.

And just like that, Rue's gone.

The shadow suddenly rises to his feet and begins rummaging through his hair. His spear is pointed towards the woods, and he's looking around. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I look up to see at Rue's figure lying several trees further to my right. To my amazement, she's loading a Pine cone into a little slingshot contraption fashioned from a branch. Soon I hear a faint _thunk_ again, and the boy staggers from the impact. He starts running blindly towards the woods, attempting to find the source of his mysterious assailant.

I sense the window of opportunity opening right before my very eyes, and the anxiety of stealing ties a knot in my stomach. _"This is no different than stealing from Peacekeepers, just stay low and move quietly," _I tell myself, trying to calm my nerves. It takes all my willpower to lift myself off the floor and sprint towards the supplies. I run low and fast under the cover of darkness, snagging the first pack I can find and starting back for the sanctuary of my nest. The adrenaline surges through my body and I can barely get the straps on with my hands shaking this much. A shrill scream slices through the silence of the dawn sky, and I flatten myself on the ground in panic, chest heaving with terror.

_Oh god, please don't let it be Rue, she's just a little girl. _

The cannon booms, and I sigh in relief at the sight of District 8's face in the sky. My face burns in shame when I realize I've _only taken one pack for myself_. What a selfish bitch I am! I sneak back and pick another random bag before sprinting back to the trees; diving beneath the leaves just in time to see District 3 come back from his unsuccessful attempt at identifying the source of the Pine Cones. I look at the trees and gasp in amazement at the empty branch where Rue was; her silent exit leaving me brimming over with envy. Envious at her stealth, tree hopping abilities, resourcefulness at crafting catapults and shooting pine cones and thinking of raiding the Careers while all I've done is bury myself with leaves in the hope no one sees me.

_And I thought I was the smart one. _

I crawl to the tree where Rue had taken up her position and leave a pack for her. It's not much, and I hope the supplies will keep her alive long enough. But I can't help thinking of owing another person in the Arena now in addition to Katniss. I had wanted to survive independently since before the Games started; since that was how I survived back home, and it's just the way I am. But after less than a day of Game time, it appears this strategy isn't going to work no matter how hard I try. There's still comfort to be taken so far though – I now know Katniss doesn't wish to kill me and Rue has both the trust and confidence I could successfully steal on her behalf. As I bury myself in the leaves and watch the Careers return from their successful kill, I begin thinking about forming an alliance with 11 and 12; just to even the playing field a little. But the nature of the Games means alliances are doomed from the start, and I don't want to end up in a sticky situation with either of them at the end.

Dawn breaks, and the artificial sun begins its blazing ascent into the sky. The Careers resume working on gathering the supplies into a big pile, and I make plans to stake out some territory for myself in an unoccupied sector of the woods. It shouldn't be too difficult now I have some supplies and twelve long hours of daylight ahead of me.

I look to the trunk where I've left the pack for Rue. It's gone and replaced by a small pile of Pine cones; a reminder I'm not alone in this fight.


	14. Foresight

I pull the hairnet over my forehead and watch the silver parachute crash into a tree; its ropes wrap around the trunk and come to a rest hidden away from my line of sight. The midday sun illuminates the shifting fabric like waves of silvery fluid. It's quiet now, save for the soft flapping of cloth mimicking the steady beat of my heart. My first instinct upon seeing the parachute floating towards me was to run and hide; the panic brought about from knowing the gift's intended Tribute would be dangerously close. But the curiosity of knowing what it was and whose hands it ended up in had a strategic element to it. After all, Finnick Odair might have died if the other Tributes saw his famed Golden Trident floating down and hatched some sort of plan against him. So I snuck under a bush twenty yards away, watching and waiting for its eventual recipient to show up.

But after an hour of waiting, I realise no one's coming to collect it. Ray's words begin playing over and over in my head like a broken record – _we can't get you any sponsors. _It can't be for me can it? Sensing a trap; I low-crawl inch by inch towards the tree, stopping every few feet to watch for Tributes. After ten yards I gain the confidence to sprint out and yank the parachute from the tree. I wrap the bag in the parachute fabric and scamper back to the little hole I've found in the side of a tree. It's not much, but after digging in the soil for a few hours with a branch, the hollowed-out tree root is big enough for me to sleep concealed. I press myself into the damp enclosure and pull the net of leaves I've fashioned over the entrance. My hands are shaking now, with anticipation at what could possibly be a sponsor's gift for me. I still haven't ruled out the possibility this could be someone else's and they're looking to kill me in revenge now. But the gift's identity will give me an answer. I steady my hands to unwrap the parachute cloth, revealing a black velvet bag tied with some cord, containing - _A pair of glasses_.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I think to myself, pondering why anyone would want to send me a pair of glasses. Most people in District 5 can't afford glasses, but I've seen them before. The Mayor has a pair, which he uses to read scripts during Capitol-approved speeches. The workers at the Solar cell factory wear them when etching voltage pathways onto silicon since the circuits are too small to see with the naked eye. But what on earth could a pair of glasses be used for in the Arena? I try them on and look at my hands, but the image is so distorted my eyes hurt after wearing them. "This is bloody useless," I think, before trying to see through the lenses from the _other _side. Instantly, my hands look like they've shrunk to the size of an acorn and an idea begins to hatch in my mind.

_It's a looking glass. _

I listen intently before poking my head out and looking around with the glasses. As expected, far objects get magnified, looking like they're right in front of me. The implication of such a discovery makes me gasp with amazement, and I duck back into my hole to think about the strategic advantage I now possess. But first, I examine every inch of the parachute and the bag looking for traces of a note. There's none, and my mind begins to burn with the possibility my Mentors' little plot has failed. Perhaps they want me to wait until the feast, since it's still too early in the Games and too obvious for my death to look like an accident. But this still doesn't change the question of how they've managed to afford this gift. Gifts of equipment are sure to fetch higher prices than food, Ray and Hertha aren't stupid.

_Thank you, _I whisper in the back of my head, clueless to the source of their sudden windfall.

My stomach begins grumbling again, and I reach into my pack to pick out a cracker. I nibble on one with some dried fruit; a meagre meal compared to even the hungriest of District 5 days. It does nothing to alleviate the emptiness in my stomach, but I pretend I'm full – since that's all the food I've allotted myself for today before I can think of a long-term solution. But perhaps this pair of glasses could be the turning point for my supply situation.

There was an immense tree two miles up from the Cornucopia; it had large overhanging branches towering over the rest of the woods. Despite its height, the foliage remained thick even to its crown. I contemplate taking the bag for the journey, but decide against having its orange fabric sticking out on the highest point in the Arena. Instead I rummage through the pack for some rope to help with climbing and drink my fill of water from the stream before proceeding on a quick hike. There're only six more hours of daylight left before I'll be relegated to shivering in my cubbyhole from cold and fear, hence I make a quick hike to my designated look-out tree in order to gain more information about the current situation within the Arena.

Quick-hiking is tough on the legs; I sprint from tree to tree, pausing behind each one to catch my breath and listen for Tributes. The pacing is good though; the sun is still high in the sky when I've reached the tree. I tie the rope around my belt and rub dry soil into my hands to prepare climbing the largest tree I've ever seen. Fortunately, the tree's bark runs upwards in thick parallel fingers, and after hitching myself up the trunk with the help of some rope, I manage to reach a fork. From there onwards it's easy to paw my way up the branches similar to climbing long sections of piping at the Power Station. The highest branches support my weight easily despite being as thick as my arm, and I now have an unobstructed view of the _entire_ arena.

I immediately discover the source of the lingering smell of smoke all day – a massive forest fire in the woods has consumed the outer-fringes of the visible Arena, probably started by the Gamemakers as a deterrent to Tributes trying to move too far away. The first person I pick out amidst the scenery is Thresh, represented by a single solitary dark spot in a golden field of wheat. I put on my glasses and flinch when he gets enlarged as though he was standing in front of me. He's picking away at the wheat now, and in the clearing he has made with his scythe – there's a substantial pile of harvested grain and other food items stockpiled right in the open. From the looks of it, Thresh won't be worrying about food for a long, long time. Still, it would be immensely difficult to steal from him since he's right in the middle of an open field.

Surprisingly, only the boy from 3 is guarding the supplies by the Cornucopia, which have now been piled up into a big pyramid. My eyes venture to the occupied Sector of the woods, and I spot them patrolling along a river that runs through the forest. It's odd all four of them and Peeta would be together. Past Hunger games usually involved District partners patrolling together to cover more ground while watching each other's backs. Perhaps they're particularly interested in killing Katniss, or Rue, or the boy from 10.

_No, they'd want to kill Katniss, she showed them up with her training score._

I wonder what Peeta Mellark's going to do when they eventually do find her.

The massive pile of supplies by the Cornucopia presents an _extremely _tempting target. There's even an approach not more than fifty yards from the nearest line of trees and it'd take seconds to sprint in and help myself before disappearing into the woods. I begin to observe the boy from 3 carefully, gauging his field of vision and blind spots to exploit. Intriguingly, he's moving a lot between the supplies and the Cornucopia. There's an awful lot of dug up soil around the supplies and maybe the Careers allowed him to live for the sole purpose of digging trenches. Perhaps they intend on diverting the stream to make a moat around the stockpile. _None of this makes sense. _

I watch him disappear into the Cornucopia over and over again, bringing back each time what appears to be soiled box to bury into the trenches. He handles each box carefully, gingerly lowering it into the dug-up dirt and patting it in place before burying it with break-neck speed. It's boring watching such mundane work, and I count myself lucky the Careers didn't pick me for this job. I'd make a shitty trench-digger too, but then again, so would the scrawny little District 3 boy - which makes the entire situation puzzling. My eyes roam the plains, looking at the Pedestals where I stood with my limbs frozen in fear less than 3 days ago. It appears even the Pedestals have not been left alone -

_The mines are gone. _

There're obvious dug-up holes around the Pedestals, and immediately the pieces begin falling into place - District 3's involvement, the trenches and the supplies being this tightly packed. Some bright soul thought it was a brilliant idea to pile the supplies together and _mine _them - as if that would accomplish anything. My attention returns to the boy from 3 and I watch him more intently. He's finished mining a quadrant surrounding the pile and doing a bloody good job at it. The upturned soil has been patted down neatly to conceal the evidence and from the looks of it – there's a complicated pattern to the placements. I watch for the time it takes for him to mine another quadrant before determining he's placing the mines in an alternating concentric pattern. In this way, there's never a straight line leading into the supplies, and anyone sprinting straight for the pile would inevitably blow themselves up.

_Looks like there's another smart cookie in the Games, too bad you're stupid enough to join them. _

I turn my gaze back to the woods. The Careers have disappeared beneath the foliage, but their movements remain visible. They're a long way off from the Cornucopia too – and it'd be possible to plan a raid with the remaining hours of daylight. I untie myself from the branch and gingerly climb down the tree. My stomach's angry with me now, for putting her through a quick hike with barely enough nutrition to last the way. I pat her gently and plead for the strength to last the journey to the Cornucopia; promising her a reward if I succeed.


	15. An Explosive Game of Hopscotch

_So here you are, two steps ahead and staying on guard_  
_Every lesson forms a new scar - "Eyes Open", _Taylor Swift

* * *

I press my face into the loamy soil and resist the urge to gag from its smell. It's a miracle I got used to the outdoors despite coming from District 5 with neither grass nor trees. But there's a way nature and machinery are so distinct yet similar; it's easy to substitute one element for another and pretend that I'm home – the trees for long sections of piping, the musky earth for rusty metal floors, and branches for lengths of broken scaffolding.

In the distance, the sun threatens to set over the hills, giving me about an hour before I'd have to hike back in near-darkness. To my relief, the Careers haven't returned from their patrol, and the boy from 3 is taking his time – moving back and forth between the Cornucopia and his mines. I've worked out his pattern now, it's awfully predictable and he's engrossed in his work. But the pile is far away, and the Cornucopia is near to the supplies. I could sprint flat out when he turns around to the Cornucopia to retrieve another mine. And then what? He'd come back to see a red-haired girl hopping over his delicate maze threatening to blow herself up. There's only one solution – hide behind the supplies while he buries a mine and wait for him to turn before making the sprint back. It's dangerous, but I make a calculated guess from Rue's earlier distraction that he's as oblivious as he's smart.

I close my eyes and map out the zig-zag line of mines surrounding the supplies, before chucking my hairnet and glasses on the ground and sprinting clear of the trees. There're clues in the perimeter – little pockets of uneven dirt where he failed to pat the earth properly; with these I mentally connect the dots to the rest of the invisible mines. The sun has reached the edge of the hills, and I sprint as hard as my legs can bring me. It's too fast, however; I skid hard against the edge of the mines and send a cloud of dirt flying up in the air. My eyes dart around on the ground, visualizing the location of each mine.

_"Hop, skip, jump_,_ one fall and I'm done," _I sing to myself in my head as I dance my way through the minefield, attempting to calm my nerves.

I clear my way through the lines and thank the boy silently for being so meticulous to place each mine precisely equidistant from one another. I grab a pack buried beneath the pile and begin opening random bags, stuffing whatever I can find into it: food, equipment, medicine; making sure to zip each one back carefully. There's even a sleeping bag and a gallon of lighter fluid which I sling over my shoulder. Lastly, I take the boy's shovel, lying on the edge of a freshly dug hole; that should slow down his work.

"What are you doing?"

The voice causes me to gasp and I jam my foot in the earth to prevent myself falling backwards into the mines. I had been so engrossed in stealing that I'd forgotten he'd be back so quickly. The boy from 3 stands a few yards away, on the inside edge of the minefield. He's carrying a spear, and from the look on his face, _he looks ready to use it. _I bunch my fingers up against the straps of my bag and try to think – but nothing comes through. _This is it_, I think, _time to die._

I would've thought, after all the near-death experiences, swallowing my fear would've come naturally to me. It's not until several attempts later, when the boy begins charging at me with his gleaming spear that my mind breaks through the fog of fear and I take a tiny hop backwards. I look at my feet and spot a patch of uneven dirt, and I jump next to it. Two hops later and I'm standing on the outside edge of the minefield, shaking with excitement that this _actually worked_. His feet skid to a halt and he looks at the ground.

I take a step back, watching his eyes all the time. After an eternity of looking at the soil, he gives up and stares at me, eyes livid with rage. I can't resist my lips curling into a smile at the thought that I've outsmarted him. He scowls at me and I run back to the tree-line, weighed down by all the stuff I'm carrying. Halfway from the Cornucopia, his spear lands with a thunk far from my feet.

_Looks like someone should've spent more time at the spear-throwing station. _

I retrieve the hairnet and glasses and lay low against the soil, watching for a pursuit. Dusk has settled over the Arena and the Careers still haven't returned. The boy is gone too, and a dread begins to settle in the pit of my empty stomach; he might mount a chase when the Careers come back, needing leverage of numbers against the higher ground and stealth I possess. But then again, would he want to risk telling the Careers that one red-haired girl managed to get through the mines? They might decide the whole setup is ineffective and kill him off. Either way, it's not worth taking any further risks. I stand up and venture into the open, catching his attention with a stolen flashlight before flashing the middle finger and running off through the woods in the _wrong_ direction.

The woods are confusing enough in the daytime and in the darkness it becomes a nightmarish maze. Fortunately, there's a full moon tonight, and before long I manage to circle my way back to the tall tree, using it as a reference point to quick hike back to my hole. Apart from stuffing my face with a fistful of crackers, I decide it's too dark and I'm too exhausted to examine my spoils for the day. But one item I've stolen has the potential to change my fate in the games, to change _me_.

The boy's shovel – I curl up in my hole and run my fingers along the fibreglass handle and touch the soil-caked blade. It's fabricated from some specially-engineered Capitol metal, making it light, well-balanced, and _sharp_. Despite the boy putting it through hours of shovelling, I still manage to stick it into the wood with nothing more than the lightest of taps. It never crossed my mind; but right now I can't help thinking that this could've been more than I bargained for – to be in possession of a weapon, to have the power to _kill_. I wipe the mud off the metal and stare back at my moonlit reflection; and for the first time during the Games, I see my parents looking back at me.

I hug the handle and cover myself with black tarpaulin, drifting off into the first deep sleep I've had for ages.

* * *

_This must be a dream, _I think, hearing the Cannon boom. My legs are carrying me through the forest, driven by people shouting and the constant looming threat of someone chasing me. But every time I look over my shoulder, there's no one. There's a burning pain in my neck, but I'm so delirious from my mad sprint that it feels numb. As I stumble further and further into the unknown part of the woods, the shouts fade away, and that horrifying tunnel vision begins to leave my eyes as well. My hands venture up my neck; I find the source of the pain and it slams into my consciousness with full force – reminding me that I'm very much awake.

I don't even notice the body lying in my path until I trip over it, and I look up to see Cato's enormous figure charging towards me like a savage beast.


	16. The Fox with Nine Lives

_They never thought you'd make it this far_  
_But turn around, oh they've surrounded you_  
_It's a showdown, and nobody comes to save you now - "Eyes Open",_ Taylor Swift

* * *

I stare at Cato as his massive frame slams into someone and gets lifted high into the air. In my post-sprint haze it takes me awhile to comprehend whose shoulders so strong could possibly lift someone as huge as Cato. It's Peeta, and he's thrown Cato down a slope, who in his clawing desperation – pulled him down as well. Now they struggle, sword clashing against spear and fists colliding with flesh.

The alliance is over? My brain tries to start a logical chain of thought, but it fails. My mind only comprehends the shimmering bodies of the two boys rolling around at the foot of the slope. _This is strange, _I think, _I should be shaking with fear_. But all I feel is the burning pain in my neck and an overwhelming wave of nausea. I kneel down and retch out whatever's left of the crackers from last night, and feel up my neck for the source of the pain. As soon as I pull out the thorn in my neck, my normal vision returns and everything starts coming together: _Tracker Jackers._

I must've gotten stung in my sleep! The burning pain sent me on a hallucination-driven stumble through the forest where I almost got killed by Cato. It's only by sheer luck, and probably the death of another Tribute, that Peeta Mellark decided the alliance was over and turned against the Careers; inadvertently saving me in the process. As I flick the Tracker Jacker sting away, the throbbing pain in my head begins to fade, and I turn my attention to the body on the floor. Instantly, I recoil in horror as Gase's dead body appears before my eyes. I shake my head and look again, seeing a girl with dark braided hair, clutching a bow. _Glimmer? _It can't be, Glimmer has blonde hair. I push my shovel under her body and flip her over. _Katniss Everdeen_.

She's still alive, breathing and whimpering something indiscernible. The welts on her neck and hands show she's gotten worse from the Tracker Jackers than I did. She's unconscious though; her contorted face evident of a mind being plagued by its worst nightmares. A tug on my sleeve sends me into a panic and I raise my shovel in fear. She ducks away from me and raises her hands. _Rue_. I look at Cato and Peeta still going at it, and Katniss at my feet; is everyone in the arena concentrated in this one spot? So much for staying hidden.

"Don't kill me," she whimpers, holding her empty hands in front of her face.

I lower my shovel and a voice, sly and malicious, begins to speak to me, "_Do it! The boys will kill each other and you can take out two of your strongest competitors! Then you'll win for sure!"_

I look at Rue's Tracker Jacker-stung hands and the gleaming blade of my shovel. She probably won't be able to struggle much before I sink the blade into her throat, and it'd be quick too. But I think of my parents watching and drop the shovel.

"Glimmer is...is dead," Rue stammers, "the others have fled to the lake, except for these two."

From the look of the two boys brawling on the slope, it won't be long now before Cato gets the upper hand and dominates Peeta. _I should probably get out of here_.

"Let's hide her," Rue suggests, pointing at a large boulder behind a bush, "she's a sitting duck like this."

The sly voice starts up again, "_Hide her? For what? So she can pick you off with an arrow when she wakes up?" _But I can't help thinking of our collision after the bloodbath. She could've knifed me there and then, but a part of her didn't. That same part of me starts pricking my conscience, and I grab hold of her limp shoulders. Rue picks up her legs, and Katniss feebly resists our attempts to carry her, murmuring something about Peeta and her father and running. Amidst the twitching she falls unconscious again; and we drag her behind the boulder and bury her beneath a pile of leaves.

I crawl back to the top of the slope and retrieve my shovel, lying low to see who makes it out of the brawl alive. Peeta staggers into view at the foot of the slope, limping and leaving behind a trail of blood. He's struggling in the direction of the river, and from the way he keeps looking behind him, Cato's not far behind.

"We should help him," Rue whispers, crawling beside my body. She's holding Katniss's bow, and there's an arrow already notched and ready to go, "Can you shoot?"

I couldn't hit a cow from point-blank even if I tried, so I shake my head.

"You don't have to hit, just cause enough of a distraction, and I'll cover you from the trees,"

My mind is still foggy, and I have no idea what she's just said. I look at Peeta, his movement now reduced to a bloody crawl, and ponder about how his family must be absolutely distraught watching him like this. I look for Rue, intending to ask for further instructions, but she's gone.

Cato appears in view, slashing through the branches and grunting with fury. He has his eyes on Peeta's helpless body crawling away from him and it won't be long now before another Cannon booms. I look at the bow in my hands, and the single arrow notched for shooting. There're many conflicting voices in my head now, some of them telling me to shoot Peeta, and some of them telling me to shoot Cato. But there's one voice representing my deepest convictions, so clear and prominent I can't ignore it. It's the voice of my father telling me how much he hates the Hunger Games.

_This is wrong. All this killing is wrong, and I'll be damned if I can't stop another person from dying today. _

I try to remember archery training, and pull the bowstring to the best of my ability, unsure of whether or not to aim for Cato or away from him. It doesn't matter, because by the time the arrow has left my trembling fingers and lands on the grass, Cato looks up the slope and directly into my eyes. The sight of his massive frame barrelling towards me for the second time reminds me what a fool I was to trust Rue, and I begin to feel the overwhelming fear paralyze my body. He's furious now; there're stings on his arms and bruises on his cheek and a look of bloodthirsty fury in his eyes. I can see Peeta's blood glistening on the blade, ready for mine to be added to it. He raises his sword as he charges up the slope determined to end the life of the red-haired girl stupid enough to think of killing him.

_Thunk_

He stops suddenly, and looks at the trees. I realise what Rue has done and cover my mouth to prevent myself from squealing in delight. _Thunk_, another pinecone hits his face, and he begins shouting expletives at the trees. I waste no time with her distraction, and before he can see me again I've dropped Katniss's bow behind the boulder and melted off into the forest. I run far into the woods, unsure of where I'm heading; and of my own feelings regarding the events of this morning. The Tracker Jacker venom hasn't faded completely from my mind, but I'm happy I've paid Katniss and Rue back in full. Although, it's unlikely I'll be killing either of them if the opportunity transpired.

_It's unlikely I'll kill anyone_, I think, _I'm far too weak and have too much of a conscience. _But as I turn around the edge of the stream and come face to face with the boy from 10 wielding a machete; it looks like I might have to prove myself wrong.


	17. Catch Me If You Can

**A/N: District 10 male Tribute follows movie characterization (I should have wrote this in a few chapters ago)**

* * *

_Don't turn around _  
_Don't give up, don't pretend_  
_That you ever had a chance_ - _Catch Me If You Can, _Jacqueline Emerson

* * *

The sight of the boy from 10 causes me to gasp and I recoil back. Immediately, the fear returns – no more hallucinogenic Tracker Jacker Venom to anesthetize me from terror. My eyes drift from his smirking face to the machete in his grasp, and I try to remember what District 10 does. _Livestock_. He must've grown up hacking away at cows in the abattoir – evident by the relaxed, familiar grasp he has on the blade. I don't even remember him taking anything from the bloodbath, and the absence of anything else on him suggests that the machete was paid for in full by sponsors.

As the wind rustles through the trees, sending leaves fluttering around us, I begin thinking of home, and how I'll never see any of them again: Gase, my parents. It's over now; I've run out of lives this time, I never had a shot at it to begin with anyway. All of them are too strong and too charismatic and I'm just a dull red-haired girl who thinks she's smarter than everyone. The leaves stop rustling, giving way to a steely silence between us. He looks at the shovel in my hand, and a smile begins to spread across his face. _What a pathetic weapon he must think I have. _

Suddenly, something about his smile begins to enrage me_. _I can imagine his sponsors gathering around the screen, eager to see what blood their little gift is capable of shedding. Those cruel Capitolites with their thirst for bloodshed and entertainment, all of them with the same sick and twisted smiles on their faces. _No, I will not die to you, District 10; not today. _I ponder my chances against him: he's much faster than me, I've seen him running at the bloodbath, and he has a machete, while all I have is a shovel and a length of rope fastened to my belt. It's pointless trying to run away from him; I'd have to do something else. But the time for staring is up, and we brace our feet against the ground.

Like duelling bulls charging to their deaths, we sprint towards one another with our weapons glinting in the sunlight.

I spot the boulder between us before he does, and step on it, giving me enough forward momentum to springboard over his shoulders and fleeing. My eyes dart over my shoulders as I run. Surprisingly, he didn't stop immediately, continuing his trajectory for a few more yards before skidding to a halt and turning around to resume his pursuit. _He seems to have a problem stopping, _I think, as he rapidly begins closing the gap between us. I look for another point to test my thoughts, the trees blurring past my vision as I run past them. Eventually, a pine tree with a thick trunk comes into view, and by then I can feel the boy's breath cascading rapidly upon my neck.

I grasp the trunk as he slashes out with his machete, ripping apart the fabric of my jacket, and I swing myself hard away from him. As expected, he continues running straight, and having realised I've swung away from him, stumbles momentarily before getting back on his feet and chasing me. _Alright you silly bull, it looks like you can only run straight_ _in straight lines. _

But now what? It's impossible to escape from him, not with his speed and the ferocious tenacity of his pursuit. I'd have to break off the chase somehow. The memory of my spine-chilling escape from the Peacekeepers so long ago begins to drift through, and I start to think despite my frantic gasping for breath. My mind's the only weapon I brought to the Games, and I sure as hell am going to use it.

I spot the pair of oak trees a hundred yards away, with no more than a three-foot gap across. _Perfect_. I unfasten the rope from my belt, trying my best to keep my legs moving as fast as I possibly can. A couple of quick knots around the shovel's handle form a makeshift harpoon, and the boy has regained all the distance he has lost at the pine tree. The pair of oak trees are coming up rapidly now, and the sound of his footsteps are getting louder and louder, almost overwhelming the throbbing boom of my own heart. With whatever strength I have left in my frail body, I swing the shovel high over my head and loop it around the tree on my _left_, before yanking the rope and sliding hard to my _right_.

The next two seconds happen in such a blur I only see the aftermath. The boy runs full speed into the tightrope I've pulled across the two trees, slamming face-first into the ground. I tug the rope, expecting the shovel to reel back into my hands, ready for me to defend myself; but it flies towards the boy and the blade's flat side slaps him hard on the back of his head as he's about to get up.

He's moaning in pain now, and edging away from me. Before my lips can gasp the words, "Sorry, are you hurt?" I see the machete in his limp grasp, and I pull it from his hand. He tries to get up but I step on him, effortlessly pinning his body down. Fortunately, the shovel has hit him so hard; he loses consciousness quickly. Now, I stand over the boy's body between my legs, with a shovel in one hand and his machete in the other.

There aren't even any voices now, just the trembling in my hands and the rapid pulse in my neck telling me to do what I came here for. I had been exposed to a wealth of experiences since the Reaping: eating meat, kissing, luxury, being part of a conspiracy. But I had never expected killing to be part of it despite being inherent to the Games. I look around, hoping another Tribute would come and I'd have to flee, relieving me of having to make a decision – but there's no one. Just the sound of my breathing and the fading sound of his as the boy slips further into unconsciousness.

I've never felt so alone, and yet so watched at the same time. Without needing to hear the squeak of cameras turning, I can feel every lens in the trees trained on me now; everyone wants to see the shy, timid red-haired girl give in to her primal urges and slaughter her opponent. My parents would be watching, and Gase too. Oh, how I wished they'd be here to tell me what to do!

They'll never be, and I doubt they'd want to. But there's one thing I want them to do: I want them to still recognize me for being me. The girl who drank her lavender coffee with both hands on the mug, who answered every question in class, and who never missed an opportunity for a hug. I want them to still recognise me, either on the screen right now, or if I ever make it back.

With the sun setting on my shoulders and the touch of my father's token pressing against my chest, I raise my weapon high in the air and bring it down hard.


	18. The Guardian Angel

"_We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness_," - Charlie Chaplin

* * *

Perched on the highest point in the Arena, I allow myself the luxury of eating an entire banana, savouring each mouthful as though it were my last.

From my view through the looking glasses, the boy from 10 is still lying in the clearing from where I had earlier struck him unconscious with the flat of my shovel. It was the best compromise between allowing him to wake up and risking another pursuit, and killing him outright. He's extremely vulnerable lying in the open like this, and I'm fully aware it won't be long before his Cannon sounds. Nevertheless, the blast still takes me by surprise.

Patrolling the forest alone, Marvel encounters the boy and nails him to the floor with his spear, not even bothering to pause and look at his latest kill. It was over in a split-second; he doesn't even break the quick pace of his hike and disappears from view beneath the trees as quickly as he appeared. _This must be what it's like to be a Career,_ I think– so indifferent to the cold-blooded nature of killing it becomes as second-nature to them as walking is.

I should be relieved at his death, since there's one less Tribute in the Games. But as the Hovercraft comes and claims his body, I can't help but imagine his family's grief now. They won't be blaming Marvel for sure; he simply chanced upon his body and did what he was supposed to as a Career. Since it was me who struck him in the head and left him to die because I was too weak to kill him outright, it's likely I now have an entire District cheering for my death.

It won't be long before another District loses their Tribute as well - I can see Peeta Mellark face down by the river, and from his feeble movements, it's likely he's on the verge of passing out. Peeta has managed to move a pitiful five yards in the entire time it took for me to flee the boy from 10 and crawl up my vantage tree. It's a miracle Cato hasn't found him yet, mounting evidence that Careers have more muscles than brains.

I wonder whether Peeta's last thoughts will consist of Katniss Everdeen, or of the realisation that he played it all wrong.

_Maybe I can change that, _I think, looking down at his helpless body teetering on the edge of the river. I do a quick check on the remaining Tributes, Rue has embalmed Katniss's wounds with leaves, and she watches over her still-unconscious body from the trees. Clove is unconscious too, having been administered a large dosage of morphling by Cato when her Tracker-Jacker hallucinations proved too unstable and dangerous for her to remain awake. The boy from 3 stands guard over the supplies while Cato tends to Clove's wounds beneath the shade of the Cornucopia. Finally, propped up against a rock; Thresh naps beneath the midday sun, oblivious to the ongoings of the Games.

I've gotten someone killed today; it's time to redeem myself by keeping another alive.

_You're fucking crazy, _the sly voice starts up again, _Peeta will snap you in two when he gets the chance_.

It's a great angle – to be the Tribute who helps without asking for anything in return; it might even get me some sponsors.

_That's bullshit. They want to see more kids dying, not alive. The Gamemakers will probably send mutts after you if you pull one more stunt. _

I carefully place the banana skin back into my pack and ponder my options. Peeta's extremely vulnerable lying unconscious by the river and there isn't anyone who's likely to help him apart from me and Rue; but she's held up with Katniss. Time isn't on his side either, it could be hours – even minutes before his injuries or Marvel claim his life. The thoughts of him dying alone begin to swirl around in my head, and I wonder what it'd be like to lie there knowing no one's coming to save me. Being left to bleed slowly with nothing to cling on to but the memories of my family and the pain of knowing they're watching you die. I close my eyes and hope silently for a quick death when the time comes. My memory begins to flutter back to a moment I shared with my mother.

Ironically, District 5 suffered its fair share of power failures. I've always liked blackouts, the absence of sight heightening all my other senses and making it such a conducive environment to _think_. During one of the rare occasions when we happened to have a candle, my mother had lit it and I was awestruck by the solitary point of light illuminating her face in an amber glow. It made our tiny home look like a golden palace.

"_You must never forget the world we live in is made mostly of darkness," she said, "some people live in darkness. Some people live with darkness within them. But it takes only the smallest point of light: a kind act, a gentle word, or even a silent hug – that will make their world bright again, and yours too."_

I haul myself down from the tree and hike back to my den, looking all the time at Marvel's last known position. It's way easier hiking in the forest now that I've pinpointed the exact locations and activities of all the other Tributes, and my nerves have relaxed somewhat from the frazzled wreck I was just a day before. But the scraping sound my machete makes as it flops against my leg reminds me - I'm still very much an inch away from death at any given moment.

The sun is still high in the sky when I reach my home in the woods. I curl up in my hole and close my eyes, but all I can see is Peeta's body sprawled by the side of the river, with the life slowly ebbing away from him.

_Well that's just too fucking bad, _the voice tells me, _and shouldn't you be taking a nap? _

I take a plastic case from one of the packs and a bottle of water before heading for the river. Along the way, I pass Katniss's body; so expertly hidden beneath a web of leaves and branches it blends into the forest floor. It'd be impossible to notice anything amiss, save for her gentle breathing just barely audible through the silence of the woods. I can feel Rue's eyes fixed on me from the trees as I stand on the boulder. She must be looking at the machete hanging from my belt, and deciding whether to change my alignment from friend to foe. But after a minute of waiting for a Pine Cone to hit my head – I smile into the forest canopy above, and continue my hike.

Peeta lies face up by the river with the lower half of his body submerged in the water. There's a red cloud around his leg where he's been bleeding out. I hold my breath and jam my hands beneath his shoulders to haul him out of the water. Immediately I recoil in disgust at the sight of his leg, and I question the usefulness of helping someone so badly wounded. Cato's sword has cut right down to the bone, and if the slow bleeding won't claim his life, infection and blood poisoning will. But there's no time to stick around to nurse his wounds, I wet his lips with water and place the case of paints into his hand.

"Thank you," Peeta whispers, his eyes barely stirring beneath the pain.

I sit against a tree by the river and think about what I've done. Whether Peeta will make it - and if he does, whether he'll pay me back with mercy or a spear through my heart. It's unlikely he even knows it's me, and even if he does, it's hard to predict what he'll do, since he's already betrayed the Careers and could really be a cold-hearted bastard deep down inside.

It's also hard to miss the glint of a spear sailing through the air towards my head.


	19. Never stood a shattered chance

_"You should have listened to me," _the sly voice says, as I jerk my head sideways and hear the sickening crunch of wood behind me, "_you're fucked now."_

Marvel's staring at me through the trees, ready to send another spear towards my head. I leap to my feet and yank his spear from the tree. But instead of fleeing, I charge towards him head on; since running from Marvel is a sure way to get speared in the back. The adrenaline surges through my veins again, but strangely, there isn't a shred of fear clouding my mind - just a gritty determination to prove I'm better than any of them.

His eyes snap to my hips where my machete's flopping around, and he pauses before hurling another spear at me. I dodge hard and lose my balance, tumbling into the leaves before getting up and charging at him again. Marvel changes his stance from throwing to thrusting. In the last few seconds it takes to close the distance between us, I try to recall Marvel at training – every thrust and hurl of his spear, and I commit his strokes to memory.

Anticipating the thrust of his spear, I lift my feet and hop on its shaft, before stepping onto his shoulders and leaping clear of him. I whirl around to face him, and his eyes light up with fury. _No one's ever done that to him before._

"Why fight?" he scowls, "you're going to die anyway."

I point the spear towards him, trying to look like a frightened animal ripe for killing. But the smirk on my lips gives me away.

_Marvel, you're bleeding, _I think, looking at the red line on his cheek where my machete had flopped into his face. He touches the blood on his cheek and spits.

"I'm going to enjoy slicing your face open, little bitch."

His words send a chill through my spine, and I tighten my grasp around the spear. Marvel charges towards me and thrusts hard, and I step aside quick enough for the point to tear through my jacket. He slams his shoulder into my ribs, crushing the air from my lungs, and shoving me to the ground. He aims his next thrust at my heart, but I roll over just enough for the tip graze my arm.

A thought flashes across my mind; I yank the machete from my belt and slash out at his spear. He barely registers the broken spear in his grasp before I leap to my feet and flee.

_Marvel, you're out of spears, _I think, knowing he carries three. One of them is in my hand. Another is broken. And the last one's lying somewhere where he had missed me. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms he's gone back for the last spear, and I think of what to do once he's reached it. My ribs hurt, and there's a trickle of blood running down my face from where the first spear had cut into my ear. But there's no time to feel pain; I glance over again to see Marvel throwing his recovered spear, and duck in time for it to stick into a large tree ahead.

I hurl my spear into the trunk above his, and use the two spears as a makeshift ladder to haul myself up the tree.

The sound of Marvel's feet stomping through the leaves gets louder despite my efforts at climbing away from him. I look down and gasp at the sight of him climbing up after me.

"Where're you going?" he shouts.

_Marvel, you're too heavy, _I think, watching his heavy body dislodging the top spear and falling to the ground.

He pulls the remaining spear from the trunk and curses at me. I reach the first fork and begin the scaling the branches. A spear flies past my ears, snatching the breath from my lungs. I cling tightly to the branch and my heart begins to pound watching the spear plummeting from the trees and clattering on the ground below.

_Marvel, you can't throw upwards, _I think, recalling how he always threw spears _straight_ at the target during training.

"I'm coming to get you, little fox!" he shouts. My heart stops when he takes out a rope and knife. It's possible to climb trees this way; I've seen a trainer demonstrate it.

I pull myself up along the branch, watching over my shoulder every inch of the way. As I scale further along the branch, the incline smoothens out and I stand up straight. The wood beneath my feet begins vibrating with the weight of Marvel's clumsy climbing. He's hot on my heels now, clambering onto the branch and using his knife to gain traction on the bark. The last spear is strapped to his back, glinting in the sunset; _he came here to kill me. _

The long branch extends over another tree with sufficiently thick branches to leap onto in the event of a fall. I ignore the pounding in my chest and trot to the end of the branch, barely a hand's breadth across. With nowhere else to go, I face down the branches' limb where my aggressor is ascending towards me. He reaches the horizontal section of the branch and shades his eyes against the glare of the sunset; the branch bending beneath our combined weight.

_Marvel, the sun's in your eyes. _

I stomp on the wood and it trembles. Marvel lets out a shriek and crouches, clinging to the twigs for support. I jam my foot into the branch and it shudders again. The knife falls from his grasp and he drops against the wood, flailing away violently. A smile begins to spread across my face as the wood creaks beneath my provocation.

_Marvel, you're not very good at balancing. _

I begin jerking the branch viciously beneath my feet, and Marvel clings onto the wood, his face frozen in fear. He unhitches the spear from his back and crawls towards me. I ignore the glint of his spear, knowing it's impossible for him to aim with the sun bearing down on his eyes like this. With my feet firmly balanced on the branch like a long section of piping, I begin shaking the wood from side to side.

"Stop it, you little bitch," he spits, the fury and desperation evident in his voice, "I'll fucking kill you."

In response, I tap the tip of my machete into the wood beneath me. His eyes widen when he realises what it means. _We're on a deadly see-saw, one person falling off will unseat the other. _

"No," he cries out, crawling back frantically, "don't do it!"

The smirk on my lips confirms his worst fears, and I begin hacking away at the branch.


	20. One Step from Death

It was at the end of a 96-hour shift when I had my first fall at the power station. My parents were struggling with food and I made up the deficit with more hours at work. Unfortunately, I underestimated the toll it would take on my mind; by the end of three days my brain turned to mush and I could no longer tell night from day. Gase spotted the rusted-out catwalk before I did, and when it snapped she grabbed my hand as I slipped into the chasm over the spinning blades of a Steam Turbine.

_Don't you let go, _she shouted, as the exhaust whipped away at my boots. I could feel the steam exhaust creeping up my legs and the noise of whirling metal billowing in my ears. As the wind blew at my hair, all my fatigue melted away into the chilling realisation that I'm barely a finger's slip away from dying. _Don't look down, _she yelled. But one look in her eyes and I knew I'd never want to look anywhere else.

* * *

As I hang from the branch in the Arena clutching on for dear life, there's something else to look at: the hilarious sight of Marvel falling from the tree and hitting every branch on his way down. The laughter begins to erupt from within my belly, and I clasp the other hand to my mouth to prevent myself from giggling so hard it'll distract me from the fact that I'm hanging thirty feet off the ground by nothing more than my fingertips. With little effort, I manage to get my other hand onto the branch and swing myself under the limb back to the trunk.

I keep my eyes on Marvel's body lying at the foot of the tree, and by the time I've reached the bottom, he's regained enough consciousness to start groaning in pain from his injuries. With the sun rapidly setting, there's no time for another debate on killing. I kick him hard in the ribs, making sure he opens his eyes to see me taking both his spears and running off in the _wrong _direction through the woods. To ensure the ruse works, I switch on a flashlight and wave it around as I run, before turning it off and heading back to my supplies.

The moon has perched itself high in the sky by the time I've circled my way through the darkness of the woods back to the safety of my home tree. I jam a flashlight into the wall of my den, allowing myself a faint ray of light to treat the many injuries I've suffered today: tracker jacker stings, an ugly gash in my right ear from Marvel's spear, and the various cuts and bruises endured running from other Tributes. Fortunately, I've managed to steal a sizeable medical kit with everything from venom antidote to antiseptic iodine to a silvery balm meant for burns.

_"I hope I won't have to use you," _I think, holding up a vial of morphling to the ray of light.

The medicine works. Like magic, all my pains and aches from today dissolve into a soothing calm that settles over my body. Before curling up to sleep, I treat myself to makeshift sandwich of crackers, dried beef and apricots. It's been a hellish day of running and fighting and making tough decisions, but I'm glad to be the girl my loved ones will still _want_ to be cheering on.

* * *

Back home, I woke up every morning to the sound of Capitol propaganda reverberating through the walls of my home; a daily reminder of the entity who controlled all our lives. But now, despite being in the Arena where the Capitol's grip on me is tighter than ever – there's no such thing. Instead, I wake up to the pleasant melody of Mockingjays tweeting and glints of sunlight piercing through my leaf net.

I've overslept; my original intention was to wake at dawn and hike to the tall tree. The early reconnaissance of the other Tributes' positions would have given me an edge over them when I planned my movements for the day. But with the sun already up in the sky, it's likely most of the Careers are already on the move hunting down the weaker ones. Marvel would've made it back to the Cornucopia last night, although I'm still divided on how he's planning to explain his injuries to the others. If he coughed up a humiliating confession about the silly girl from 5 luring him up a tree and unseating him – it'll probably lead to a massive sweep in _the wrong_ sector of the woods; which will affirm my safety for now.

Just as I reach for some breakfast, my fingers freeze at the sound of a branch snapping. It's not far from where I am, and the footsteps soon follow. They're loud and heavy – devoid of all stealth or fear.

_There's a Tribute nearby who isn't afraid of being noticed. _

With trepidation in my bones I edge myself nearer to my net to see who it is. From my angle, I can make out a ponytail swaying in the breeze. Only the girl's back is visible from my position. She's too short to be Katniss, and too tall to be Rue; but there're only four girls left. A shudder runs through my body and I press my chin into the soil as her name flashes through my mind – _Clove. _The glint of a knife clenched in her right hand confirms her identity.

I hold my breath as she turns and wanders in my direction.


End file.
